Almost Eden, page 18
‘Mister Allison, if I told you the truth … I bet you a million in gold you would never guess the reason we bought that. Still, if you’d like to come down tomorrow, early, and detect away – you’re welcome. We have fresh eggs from the chickens for breakfast.’
‘Well…?’
‘Robby?’
Allison slowly cranked his head around to Robby.
‘Happen I drops hooks in the sand and mud, and this’ll fetch ‘em up.’ He returned to examining it.
Facing me, Allison said, ‘He’s either the world’s best actor, or….’
‘Genuine. Would you … like a cream scone, cup of tea perhaps?’
‘Sure, why the hell not.’
With our omelettes placed down, Allison enjoying his scone – cream squirting out the sides, Mason wandered around the corner, accompanied now by two middle-aged men in suits. They looked well-healed, and rich.
‘Mister Bannister,’ Mason acknowledged, the most polite he’d been so far.
Allison did not even bother to look up, or to react, his cheeks covered in crumbs.
‘Mister Mason, how’re you this fine evening?’
Mason stared down at me. ‘Thought you were selling.’
‘I am, my new solicitor – Michael Coltrane from Swains – has a buyer lined up.’
‘I’ll top the offer.’
‘You don’t know what the offer is...’
‘Get a firm offer, then let me know, and I’ll top it.’
Allison had still not reacted, Robby busy stuffing his face.
‘You seem … very keen to get your hands on the old place?’ I toyed, now enjoying this.
‘What’ll you do if you find anything?’
‘Hand it in.’
‘And lose a great deal of money. Certain … items could be worth twenty-four million. I’d give you five.’
Now Allison lifted his head, and my enjoyment levels could not have peaked more without creating a mess in my trousers. Standing, Allison turned to face Mason, and lifted his ID. ‘Special Branch.’
Mason’s two buddies looked like they’d need an ambulance, and a defibrillator to get their hearts started. Mason didn’t look too well either.
‘That gold ... belongs to Her Majesty’s Government, and should anyone other than Her Majesty’s servants touch that gold, I’d kick their fucking teeth down their fucking throats, then send them to jail forever. Now, I’m eating, so fuck off!’
Mason and his buddies scampered away, and I finally let out my smile. Shaking my head, I said, ‘Glad now I made you that tea earlier. But tell me, is everyone in Special Branch as polite as you?’
He returned to his scone. ‘Those that haven’t been divorced yet.’
Robby chewed, swallowed, and faced me. ‘He ain’t like those other tax collector men.’
Allison shot Robby a look. Facing me, he said, ‘You going to look for the gold?’
‘Tempted, just to be rid of it. I crave … peace and quiet. But I’d bet the farm it’s not there. You see, Norton’s wife would have never cooperated with him.’ Allison waited. ‘He gave her syphilis, raped her daughter and gave her syphilis, and they … lived at the estate after the war; no cup of tea and a cheery smile to welcome him.’
Allison nodded. ‘Silver was there all along, but he never got to sell it. I can see why now. Thought my wife was mad at me. Jesus.’
‘The ladies were … incurable,’ I pointed out. ‘Back then there was no cure.’
‘If he was infected, then he couldn’t have lived long,’ Allison pointed out. ‘Couple of years. They used to put them in mental wards.’
‘Who?’ I puzzled.
‘People with syphilis.’
‘Then we can but hope that Captain Norton ended his days in such a place, in abject agony.’
‘That’s just about a certainty. And wherever he hid the gold was lost when he … lost his mind.’
‘It’ll turn up when some supermarket is being built. You know, they say Hitler had syphilis.’
‘Tolstoy was supposed to have had it, and Napoleon,’ Allison commented. ‘They used arsenic and mercury to try and cure it back then.’
‘And Al Capone, of course, the most famous case,’ I illustrated. ‘He struggled on for twenty years, slowly going mad.’
‘We’ll have to check that Norton is not in the House of Lords,’ Allison quipped.
‘Now, now, you are loyal and true servant of the crown,’ I teased.
He shot me a look before finishing up his scone. ‘For a while, then maybe I’ll get a small holding, or a boat, get the hell out of London.’ He carefully regarded me. ‘Don’t repeat this, but they’re making plans.’
‘Plans?’
‘The government, plans in case things go pear-shaped.’
‘Things like … the Euro, our banks?’
He nodded. ‘Contingency plans. All savings over fifteen grand would be wiped out, all private pensions wiped out, state ownership of everything in the FTSE100 Index.’
‘Bloody … hell. You … think it might come to that?’
‘Domino effect. Had the first bank bailout, had all the debts the last Labour government ran up, Greece had folded owing two-fifty billion, French banks cracking, Spain is on life support, German opposition growing – they want to break away from the Euro. If it goes, the Euro, it’ll go quick, and the banks will seize up. Martial Law.’
‘Jesus. I was worried before, but…’ I took in the tourists as they wandered about enjoying themselves, and found myself staring at the boats.
This was a scene in which it was hard to picture anything bad happening. This was a scene … in which you could not but help imagine that all was well and good with the world, peace on earth, and that dreams could come true. Picture postcard scenes like this made it impossible to consider that a crisis loomed somewhere other than in the newspapers and on the TV.
If I hadn’t been in the will, if I hadn’t been caught up in the publicity and lost my job, I’d be in London, getting ready for an Over Forty’s Night. Now, I was being pushed along by the tide, and I felt helpless.
But I soon realised, sat there, that maybe I should stop lying to myself. I loved messing about with the estate, wind turbines and water wheels, planting crops and vegetables, fishing on the estuary. When married, we had lived in a house with a large garden, and I had loved that garden. It would occupy many a long hour on a damp weekend, and I loved to sit and stare at my creation.
And I hated Wendy for depriving me of it, my time pottering about in it, my little green paradise. From what I heard, she had let it go a bit. My all-important tools had been left behind, a sixth floor apartment taken, no garden to tend. Not so much as a potted plant.
‘You look like you’ve had a revelation,’ Allison noted.
I turned back to him, ‘Huh? Oh, just thinking.’
‘About…?’
‘About … what I want to do, what I really want to do. You see, I had a garden when we were married, big garden, shed, tools -’
‘Now going rusty.’
‘That … is a cruel thing to suggest,’ I pointed out. ‘But, I’d be a liar if I said otherwise.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Truth is … I like messing about in the estate, building things, planting and gardening. If I created a large garden there … well, I’d be happy enough. But we do what we think we should do, not want we want to do. We do … what society expects of us, what was hammered into us by our teachers, advised by our parents. We … go to work each day, get a mortgage and have kids, because that is what is expected of us – the basic working model. And if you don’t fit the model you’re a hippy.
‘But what happens when the model breaks down, when your wife divorces you.’ I held my hands wide. ‘I did everything right, I worked hard, saved, got married, save more and worked more, had kids, raised them right, always respected my wife, and then … then you’re divorced. What advice do your parents issue then, what does society recommend?
‘I had my train tracks, straight and narrow, and I damn well stuck to them, and I would have stuck to them till I died. But I raised my kids, raised them well, and off they went. I respected my wife, never cheated, but I got old - and she got bored. So, having done everything by the book, been a good citizen on the straight and narrow, I end up in an apartment by myself, staring at the clock.
‘I’d like to meet my parents in heaven, and say: well, I followed your advice to the letter, see where it got me. It got me a small apartment, a microwave meal and a paperback.’
‘You don’t sound at all bitter,’ Allison quipped. ‘In fact, you sound like me after a few pints.’
‘I’m not selling, at least not now.’
‘Not selling?’ Robby asked.
‘No,’ I told him. ‘So I expect a proper day’s work from you from now on, not lying in till 10 in the morning.’
‘If I lay in till 10 my head hurts summit terrible,’ Robby stated. ‘Sometime, after good session down pub, I gets up at half eight.’
‘Shocking,’ I told him, but with a glint in my eye.
Allison eased up. ‘Hope you find that dream. But don’t take too long.’
I had followed him up, my manners the result of a good upbringing. ‘I have a … favour to ask.’ He waited, not looking pleased. ‘You have access to … information, and the police. So if you found out anything about Mark Pugh the solicitor, and my car, it … may help me sleep at night.’
He nodded reluctantly. And off he walked, leaving me stood people-watching for a minute as the tourists milled around.
Robby and I moved around the corner and sat outside a pub, Robby soon downing several pints as I sipped my shandy. And sat there, with the large metal detector across our table, everyone stared at us – even the tourists.
Walking up to the car at 9.30pm, I noticed a familiar old green Land Rover. And walking towards it was Marcus from the commune, a white guy with dreadlocks and a combat jacket, something of a visual cliché and a mixed message.
‘Marcus,’ I called.
He spun around, had a good look, then bound over. ‘Right, Robby. Roger.’ We shook. He took in the metal detector. ‘You dropped some coins in the sand?’ he genuinely asked.
‘Fish hooks,’ Robby explained, and I had to wonder if Marcus was taking the piss, if he knew about the treasure, or if he shared a genetic parentage with Robby.
‘I have some work for two strong lads,’ I began. ‘A week’s work.’
‘We’d be interested,’ Marcus keenly got out.
‘And the daily rate is … fifty, yes?’
He nodded. ‘How many days?’
‘Let’s say a week, seven days.’
‘If it’s regular, we could say … five hundred a week?’ he risked, although I would have not haggled him down.
‘Sounds fair. It’s a deal.’ We shook again, although I had half expected him to spit on his palm first.
‘We could start Sunday if you like.’
‘Sure, I’ll be shopping tomorrow.’
In the car, and driving off, Robby said, ‘You be staying put?’
‘If the world will leave me alone, I may well be, winter or not. Nothing for me in London, not now, except people making polite excuses not to meet with me for coffee.’
‘I’ll sit with you in winter, Mister Roger.’
I smiled. ‘Robby, that’s … just about the kindest thing anyone has said to me in the past three years – I hate to admit.’
He thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Any of those folk ones what call me village idiot?’
Back at the house, we found it as we had left it, and all secure. I checked the large house, each room in turn just to be sure, my shotgun still in my room, everything as I left it. And I considered that I was being paranoid. I also considered that Mister Mason would be needing a change of underpants, and would not be bothering me again.
I sat alone, sipping my tea, still a few sections of the out-of-date newspaper to scan. At 10pm I eased up and stretched an aching back, knocked off the lights and headed up to my room, soon getting ready for bed. I had taken a brochure from the garden centre, and now sat in bed reading it. When my eyes told me that they had had enough, I took off my reading glasses, turned out the light and settled down.
A banging sound woke me sometime later, and I cursed having left the window ajar, the wind having picked up. I had to remember that this was Devon, on the coast, and in Britain. I closed the window and checked the latch, a quick peek out revealing a black night of low cloud and no moon; I could hardly see a thing, just a few distant lights.
Back in bed, I tried to get comfortable, soon registering that someone was moving around outside. Discounting Robby, who had drunk six pints without a pause, I eased out of bed, a hand reassuringly placed on the shotgun. I stepped softly to the window, my back to the wall, and peeked through in time to see a dark shadow inspecting the enigma machines.
I had been half tempted to shout a warning about rusted metal and tetanus, but resisted – on account of the fact that I would have sounded silly. I quickly placed my trousers on, my shoes slipped into, the shotgun raised, and I stopped – considering calling the police, or calling Allison from Special Branch.
But it was late, and Allison’s offer to respond was probably just him being polite; dragging him out of his cosy bed and breakfast might well have elicited some bad language. And by time he got here my intruder would probably be gone.
As I considered my options, I considered that whoever was poking around was probably some local idiot after treasure. Perhaps even someone who had seen us tonight with the metal detector.
‘I knew it was a bad idea,’ I told myself.
Heaving a sigh, I peeked out of the window again, the dark shadow now moving around to the rear. I was afraid, but I was also annoyed, and I was starting to get very annoyed at people bothering me.
Opening my bedroom door very slowly, I stepped out onto the dark landing, gun levelled, and I just listened. I could hear the wind whistling through some unseen opening, but little else. Inching towards the top of the stairs, each footfall measured and placed, I halted at the banisters and peered down, inky blackness greeting me.
A long two minutes later I summoned enough courage to start the journey down the stairs, partly spurned on by the fear of not wanting to be attacked in my bed, partly by the anger of wanting this idiot intruder gone – and my warm bed reclaimed. The stairs creaked in several places, making my descent that of an actor in an old black and white horror movie.
I had seen many such films, and I decided there and then that I would not to be walking backwards, falling through trap doors, being eaten by the werewolf or seduced by the nice lady vampire.
Shaking my head and the silly images now sloshing around, I touched down onto the hallway tiles. There had been no sounds of breaking glass, no splintering of wood as some giant of an intruder kicked the doors in, no howls of wolves either. I could detect no breeze downstairs, so the doors and windows were closed – and intact. All was quiet.
Moving to the kitchen, movement outside was just about discernable. As well as an odd sound. It was almost as if … as if someone was trying to pick the lock. Given that the kitchen door needed a dated mortis key, and was bolted, they would have a long night – little to show for their efforts.
I stepped into the kitchen, shotgun levelled, each step slowly taken, each shoe carefully placed down for minimum sound. I stopped. What the hell was I doing? Turn the lights on, shout a warning, and call the damn police. Or open the window and fire a warning shot of salt into the air. But, oddly enough, I resisted my own good advice, and nervously advanced towards the sink.
There it was again, that odd sound. And now an odd smell. A noise near the back door.
Was someone hoping to get in? The door was solid, I knew that, a good old-fashioned wooden door suitable for a smuggler; it would slow up a police raid. You’d need explosives. Now hoping that whoever was out there had neglected to bring any suitable explosives, I started to worry about the gaping hole in the cellar. The cellar hatch was closed and its lock turned, the under-stairs door closed and latched. If someone was going to come in that way, they’d make a loud noise.
I sniffed. Was the house of fire, or was it coming from outside. A sparking sound was identified by a small but bright light, and I lowered my gaze, soon realising that the batteries were sparking and overheating. I could hear the wind blowing strongly outside, and now realised that the damn wire was connected. Earlier today, and with the dial suggesting that the batteries were a quarter charged, I had connected the wire.
Not thinking straight, and not prioritising my problems in order, I reached across and uncoupled the wires, worried I might damage the batteries.
The back door handle gently turned.
I lifted the wires to my face, a smell of burning evident, and a very daft idea hit me, my brain not quite thinking things through. It was right there in front of me, the brass door handle, the wires in my hand. With my nostrils full of the smell of burnt wires, a smell not unlike a lit match, I jabbed the wires towards the brass door handle.
A spark preceded a scream from outside, and I smiled widely in the dark, suddenly mortified that I might have killed someone – and how I might explain it away. Being sued came to mind.
I knocked the light on, rushed to the sink and cracked open the window. ‘I’ve called the police, and I have a shotgun!’
‘God damn fucking…’
I recognised the voice, the tone, and the coarse language now being used; I had electrocuted Allison. Reaching for the door handle, I brushed against the exposed wires, and shocked upright onto my toes, the shotgun discharging with a deafening blast. That blast died quickly as I fell to the floor with a cry, the cry being as much from sudden fear as from any lingering electric shock.
Breathing heavily, and wondering if I was alive or dead, I wondered why I was peeing myself. I seemed to be in full flow.
‘Roger!’
‘Uh,’ was all I could get out, staring up at the ceiling, my head registering a growing pain.
‘Roger!’
The window creaked open, things crashed to the floor, something broke, a large green form soon looming over me.
