Sara fumed as she looked across at her boss, bustling around making sure everybody knew how busy and important he was.  “It’s alright for him, but I haven’t been sent out on a job for over a week now.”

“You’re still getting paid, so what are you worrying about?” asked her friend, who was trying to concentrate on packing her bag for her next assignment.

“I’m getting bored making coffee and running errands for Mr High And Bloody Mighty Jenkins!  Oh sorry, I forgot he’s your uncle.”

Fenella grinned as she admonished Sarah for her language.  “You’re right, he is High and Bloody Mighty, but you can’t be using that word in front of the clients.  You have a reputation to look after.  After all, you’re the star attraction at Nannies ‘R’ Us.  I wish I was on your salary.”

“Some star who can’t even score a job!” snorted Sara.

Both girls suddenly perked up as the door opened to admit a tall handsome West Indian looking man, whom Jenkins scurried to greet, grabbing his outstretched hand in both of his, and pumping it vigorously.

“I saw him first!” muttered Sara and Fenella in unison, then collapsed in giggles as the office door closed behind the men.

“Too bad,” laughed Sara, “You’re away for two weeks, so if there are any pickings to be had, I’m going to be on the spot for the harvest!”

When Fenella picked up her bag and left the office with a cheery wave, Sara got back to her moping.  It really wasn’t fair, she should have all the plum jobs around here, and there was Fenella, off on a Mediterranean cruise to look after a movie star’s kids for a fortnight.  Bloody favouritism just because she was old Jenkins’s niece!

Pulling out the Yellow Pages, Sara began looking through the list of Nanny agents.  It was time she made a fresh start, go where she’d be appreciated in real terms, and given the jobs commensurate with her abilities.

The boss’s door opened and the handsome black guy walked out, then headed straight over to her desk.

“You’re Miss Sara Noble, aren’t you?  I’m Josiah Stone, and you’re to come with me immediately.”  Behind him Sara could see old Jenkins smiling at her. 

“Sorry you’ve been cooped up for the last few days,” he said, “But this job was coming up, and I couldn’t risk you not being available at short notice.  Well, go on, you have a plane to catch.”

Sara’s mind was in a whirl, as she grabbed her always ready overnight bag and followed the man out of the office and across the car park to where his car – no, make that a limo – gleamed a deep maroon in the sunshine.

“Mr Stone, where are we going?” she asked.

“It’s Josiah, and we’re off to Jamaica.”

“But I don’t have my passport on me.  It was stolen last month, and I’m still waiting for a replacement to arrive.”

“That’s all been taken care of.  Mr Jenkins pulled a few strings and your passport was fast tracked to his office, and it’s in my briefcase now,” he reassured her.

Blimey!  He must be an important man, she thought.

They reached the car, and Sara was gobsmacked to see Fenella in the back seat, looking like the cat who’d just made a successful raid on the goldfish bowl.  Josiah ushered her into the back seat beside Fenella, and climbed in beside the driver.  What a flash car.  It even had a glass partition between the front and back seats, so they could talk freely.

“I thought you were off to the Med?” accused Sara.

“Sorry about that, but I couldn’t let you in on it,” said Fenella, “I was sworn to secrecy.  You know Dad works at the Foreign Office?  Well, Mr Stone is high in the Jamaican government, and...”

“He told me to call him Josiah,” Sara gloated.

“…and this job came up at top level, and everything needed to be kept under wraps.  Mr Stone didn’t want the press to catch on that he was in England, as he’s going through a nasty, very public, divorce, and didn’t want any more flash bulbs going off in his face. A new orphanage is being installed just outside Kingston, and they sent him over here to hire a pair of English Nannies with impeccable reputations to get the kids settled in properly, so here we are, off to sunny Jamaica.  Those kids might be right little so and so’s, so we could make the job last for at least two or three months.  We can’t leave them until they are properly settled in.”

Suddenly Sara felt like she’d been raiding the same goldfish bowl as Fenella, and settled back in her seat to enjoy the trip.

Twenty six hours later, they stepped off the private jet into the blazing sunshine at Kingston International Airport.

The flight had been nothing short of luxurious, with stewards at their beck and call, serving up a sumptuous assortment of West Indian delicacies and exotic tropical cocktails.  Sara had needed to exercise lots of self-restraint, or she’d have been tiddly for the whole trip, and that wouldn’t have done at all.

It was very pleasant to be whisked through customs and immigration at almost breakneck speed, and they were soon out in the busy airport concourse, taking in the bustling atmosphere and the cosmopolitan crowds of people.  Yeah, sure, the check-in staff and the assistants in the coffee and souvenir shops outnumbered the passengers by at least three to one, with a ring of security guards outnumbering the lot.

“For an International airport, it’s a bit quiet,” muttered Sara.

“This isn’t England here,” smiled Josiah.  “Our ways are a little different.  We had the airport closed to the public to avoid another media scrum.”

Emerging onto the car park, they made their way to the twin brother of the maroon limo that had taken them to Heathrow.

“This way, Mr Stone,” said the porter who was wheeling the trolley with their luggage.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there appeared a desperate looking Jamaican, with Rastafarian dreadlocks swirling, and wielding a gleaming machete.  Before they could do a thing, the thug swung the machete at Josiah, leaving him with a gaping hole in his neck, through which his blood spurted out as he fell, dead before he hit the ground.

Sara had no time to react before the assailant turned his machete on her, severing her arm at the shoulder, then burying it in her skull.  Fenella turned to run, screaming as if all the devils from hell were on her heels, but to no avail.   He felled her with a blow that almost severed her neck, and she too fell to the ground, leaving an abrupt silence only punctuated by the heavy breathing of the assassin.

Then the airport security guards finally woke up to what was happening, and rushed out to surround the man, guns drawn.  With a lucky shot, one of them managed to hit him in his machete carrying arm, and the weapon dropped to the ground with a harsh clatter.  The Rasta moaned and made a grab for it, but a guard kicked it away, and the man was grabbed, and roughly bundled into the windowless room usually reserved for body searching drug smugglers.  The reek of marijuana fumes emanating from the Rasta was almost overpowering in such a confined space.

The three bodies lay still out on the tarmac, in spreading pools of blood, while the porter remained huddled beside the trolley loaded with luggage, wailing piteously.

Inside the room, the man was shackled to a chair while they awaited the arrival of the Murder Squad, and a nurse was summoned to attend to his bullet wound.

“Why the hell did you do that, man?” asked Thomas, the guard who had managed to shoot him.

“No, don’t question him now,” said another guard.  “That’s a job for the police.”

“The police?  Why you getting the police man?  I didn’t do nuttin’ wrong.”  Those were the first words uttered by the man, in alarm.  “You don’t need the police.  It was only a joke man, just a joke.”  And the hairs on the guards necks stood up as he suddenly let out a maniacal giggle.  “Just a joke.”

“Yeah, bloody funny, man,” snarled Thomas.  “Best April Fool’s Day stunt I ever did see.  It’ll be just as funny when they hang you, you Rasta bastard!”

“No man, they don’t hang a bloke for making a joke.  You see, I was just having a little toke of ganja down in the car park, and I see this man walking past with two white birds.  My old lady ran out on me last year, and I can’t get a lady of my own, and this flash guy had one to spare.  What was I supposed to do man, let him be greedy and corner all the birds on the island?”

“Where did you get the machete?” demanded Thomas.

“I’m the gardener here at the airport and I was chopping back the overgrown undergrowth.  Hey, dat’s good, that.  Overgrown undergrowth.  Undergrown overgrowth,” and he lapsed into a fit of giggles.

“Why did you do it, you useless doped up piece of Rasta shit?”

“It’s funny man.  I heard the porter calling dat man Mr Stone, and I thought what a joke it would be to kill two birds with one Stone.  I didn’t have to do the porter, man, ‘cos the joke wouldn’t work.  I just needed to kill two birds with one Stone so I’d be famous and my old lady might come back to me.  Hey,” and he peered round hopefully.  “Any of you guys got any ganja?  I could sure use another smoke, man.”

And the room was filled with giggles, interspersed with chants of, “I killed two birds with one Stone!”