Queen Size Memory Foam Mattress with Ventilation System

Derek Rand in: On Her Majesty’s Supportive Foam

Derek Rand awoke with the startling sensation that he was falling. The windows rushing past him told him he was.

One moment he’d been in a conference room on Storey 87, briefing the Branch higher-ups on his progress in apprehending the outlaw arms dealer Euripides López. Rand remembered that he’d just turned toward the corkboard to illustrate López’s latest disguise by drawing a pair of buck teeth on the last known photo of the scoundrel. Then a blow to the head, and presumably he’d been tossed out the window. Rand knew the fake suicide note would have already been forged.

Ambushed inside Branch HQ? He would have staggered under the implications, had he been standing on firm ground. Clearly López’s tentacles reached even further than Rand had ever dreamed. Not that it’ll be my bother much longer, Rand thought. That pavement down there will sort out all of my problems, and sharpish. Rand was determined to keep a stiff upper lip to the very end. Been a wheeze, hasn’t it? There’ll always be an England.

But visions of jam butties and Denis Law vanished when he saw it. His only hope: a Cool Sensation Queen-Size Memory Foam Mattress someone had discarded in the alleyway below. Rand would have known it anywhere, as he’d tumbled with the alluring Nilla Wayfair on the full-size version in her Leningrad love nest. It would take some doing, but if Rand could direct his fall toward it, and land with just the right roll, he might – might – have a chance. 2.5 inches of Memory Foam, a 3-inch foam support structure, and a 4.5-inch high-density foam base were all that stood between him and the grave. Lord, let it be enough.

Rand wriggled out of his bespoke jacket from Booth & Sons. Tearing out the liner everywhere except around the shoulders, Rand almost doubled it in size. But it still wasn’t catching enough air to act as a decent parachute.

Then Rand remembered he was wearing a parachute, as he always did. Damn that blow to the head. Ruined a lovely jacket for nothing. He pulled the cord and sailed gently down onto the mattress. A great weariness overcame him. How I’d love to just lie down and feel this foam mold to my body. Feel the cool breeze through the breathable, air-flow cell structure. But there’s no time. There’s never time.

Rand knew the turncoats who’d tried to kill him wouldn’t wait around to read his obituary in theDaily Mail. He had to be off and away before they came down to collect the body. His sole advantage was that they didn’t know he was alive – he had to make the most of it. Casting off the chute, he raced down the alleyway toward the street, tossing his official ID into a dustbin. If López was pulling the Branch’s strings, it was as much a liability as an asset.

A bit of luck at last as a hack pulled up almost before Rand had raised his arm to hail it. “Gatwick,” he panted at the squat, balding cabbie from the back seat. Rand flung a fistful of notes at the driver. “Ignore all the red lights and there’s more where this came from.” The driver turned. He smiled. A smile of white, straight teeth. Rand suddenly felt this was no typical cab driver, a suspicion confirmed when the man drew a knife and swiped at Rand’s face. Looks like the Branch isn’t going to let this little piggie leave the pen so easily.