CHAPTER 1: part ii
With his head and bottom both still feeling sore, Martin strolled back up the High Street towards its younger end where Minchin Associates resided. He had chosen a plural trading style to give the impression that his was a larger accountancy firm than the average one-man-band, but the fact that it was always he who answered the telephone rather gave the game away, not that it seemed to matter. His clients were mostly self-employed people and proprietors of small businesses and, while they were unlikely to make him his fortune, they enabled him to pay his bills on time and stay in the black, about which he was fastidious. His shoes feeling strange around his bare feet, he acknowledged to himself that Friday's move into Lockkeeper's Cottage couldn't come too soon. In the meantime, it was after midday and he needed something to eat. A doner kebab was too often the convenient thing to choose and he pushed open the door into the little shop beneath his office.
'Eh, Martin, 'ow you doin' up there?' Mehmet was Kebabbaburger's Turkish owner and chef. He had a wiry build, mischievous eyes and a highly belligerent attitude towards anything resembling authority, despite which, or maybe because of which, he made a very good living.
'Hello Mehmet.'
'You wanna doner?'
'Yes, I wanna doner. Plus ça change.'
'Eh?'
'How are you doing, Mehmet? Pretty well I think.'
'No way, Martin. I got trouble. Not your size trouble, ha ha, sleepin' 'ere. No, your majesty custom, 'e say I don't get back no V-A-bloody-T on petrol, on air fare, on the bloody shoppin' up Tesco. I tell 'im to go look up 'is books but 'e slap on the final demand an' say about penalty fines. I say I pay my national an' my bloody Tory tax on airports an' all but 'e not listen. 'Ow much you put 'im in 'is place? You wanna hot sauce?'
'I'm sorry, I can't. And no, mild, please. You've got to pay taxes like everyone else. What does your accountant say?'
''e say the same but I gonna fire 'im.'
'Don't shoot the messenger, Mehmet.'
'No, I only gonna fire 'im.'
'You know you can't beat the system. Death and taxes and all that.'
'Yeah, death to taxes an' the bloody system, that's what I say! You got no ambition!'
'You're sounding like my wife.'
'Oh no, not The Bimmer, dammit! I shut up now. That's two sixty-five. For you, two sixty.'
'You're all heart, Mehmet. It was two fifty-five yesterday.'
'You never 'ear of inflation, Martin? And you doin' bloody accounts an' all. Ha! Anyway, The Bimmer, she was lookin' for you earlier. You not bin upsettin' the ol' missis again?'
'Oh, probably; it's easily done. See you.' Martin trudged up the stairs with the ominous Beverley cloud once more hovering over his head. For someone who wanted him out of her life she had a funny way of leaving him alone. He unlocked the door and entered his office. There was a main room with three other doors leading off, one into a smaller room that he used for storage and sleeping, one into a tiny kitchen area and one into an even tinier lavatory. Martin's desk was arranged so that he sat with his back to the large window that overlooked the High Street, even though the resultant reflections made it difficult to read his PC's screen much of the time. He pulled a discarded newspaper out of the waste bin, put it on his desk as a mat and placed the paper bag containing his lunch on it. While he had been out, the fax machine in the corner had spewed a message onto the floor. He picked it up; it read: 'URGENT! To: Mr. M. G. Minchin. From: Mr. S. Essex. Re: Business Opportunity. I am travelling to Shimbley on Thursday morning and will call at your office to discuss a business opportunity. Please ensure that you are available.' Martin sniffed, scratched the back of his neck, frowned and read it again, stroking the lump on the top of his head. A little mysterious, he thought, pressing the messages button on the answering machine:
'Mithter Minchin, my name ith Ethicth,' lisped a man with a nasal, slightly high-pitched tone. 'I'm going to offer you a very lucrative deal. I'll call by your offith tomorrow morning. Thee you then.'
'Well, Mithter Ethicth,' Martin mocked aloud, 'that might not be convenient.' He erased the message, sat down and launched the diary on his PC, shifting his seat and cocking his head to make it easier to read the display. Everything was organised: closed for business from tomorrow, Thursday, evening until Friday morning next week, and he had all of what should be a quiet day tomorrow to prepare what he needed to take from the office. There was no reason why he couldn't give Mr Essex some of his time; it looked as though he would have plenty to spare. He turned his attention to his kebab. S for snake – a cousin had once kept a pet snake called Silas. Could be S for Slug, Terrible, Unctuous, Vile, Wretched. He ground to a halt, knowing that X would defeat him, as it always did. He had no idea why he had taken off along the 'slug' route while contemplating Mehmet's kebab. To be fair, whatever they contained, they were delicious and had yet to cause him any regret. It was clearly the fault of Eth Ethicth, whatever the Eth thtood for.
It was a curious name, Lockkeeper's Cottage, since there was no river, no canal and no lock anywhere in the vicinity. Martin had made one or two enquiries of long-standing local people but was no wiser. Petey P-T had suggested that it was named by a retired lock keeper for old times' sake, which seemed, in the absence of any other, to be a reasonable theory. The only hint of water of any kind was in the back garden, in the form of a 'wishing well', which Martin assumed was an ornate invention of relatively recent years, installed by an occupier with an unfortunate taste for quaintness. The cottage dated back in part to the eighteenth century; countless owners had created a mongrel that was not without charm, but unlikely to make the cover of a style magazine. It was presently owned by a bank which had repossessed it from some poor unfortunates who were victims of wider economic difficulties. The location was perfect for those who preferred their own company, in that it was on an unclassified road and separated from its neighbours on either side by fields. The bank was looking for a quick sale and had accepted Martin's first offer with alacrity.
'Oh God! You're not really going to put one of that greasy little man's things in your mouth, are you? You have no idea what he puts in them.' Beverley wasn't a kebab type of person. She was impeccably turned out in a green suit, sufficiently chic for a lunch with royalty. He had noticed her recent tendency always to be dressed as if for a formal engagement and wondered what she was up to. It was out of the question that she had landed a job: Beverley didn't do jobs. Perhaps she was angling for a mate even more moneyed than the property developer. Back to S: Smug, Snooty, Supercilious.
'Why don't you come in, Beverley? Off to a wedding?'
'Sarcasm is so lame, Martin.' Sarcasm? Strumpet! She stooped over his desk and picked up the fax message. 'Well, well, new business. Who's S. Essex? Anyway, about your clothes, Martin.' He instinctively looked down at his apparel and anticipated a comment about his lack of socks. 'I need more space.' She took a clean mug from a shelf and helped herself to coffee from the filter machine on top of a filing cabinet. 'Ugh! Do you really drink this? Your habits are repellent.' She poured the contents of the mug into a pot occupied by a cactus.
'I've no idea who S. Essex is. And that was yesterday's coffee to which you're quite welcome. I'm moving into my new home the day after tomorrow and I'll fetch the rest of my things at the weekend. I'm sure that your eight-square-metre, walk-in wardrobe will suffice until then.' He muttered this last bit through clenched teeth to no one in particular.
'What? Well it really isn't good enough, Martin. Try to improve on that – I don't want to have to mention it again. Oh, and the car must need a service or something because it keeps belching. I'll have the garage liaise with you about it, okay? Just look at this poxy little place; no wonder you don't have any decent clients. You really ought to get your act together. Bye.'
With that she turned on her statuesque, black stiletto heel and swept out as imperiously as she had entered, once more leaving him reviewing in his head what would have been stingingly appropriate last words. The car, a two-year-old BMW 325i, had been a gift from him to her and certainly shouldn't be belching or doing anything else untoward. She had probably put diesel into it, perhaps in an act of deliberate sabotage because she no longer liked the colour. Whatever, he had no intention of digging into his fast-diminishing funds to put that right.
Trying to rid his head of Beverley, he began to wonder who S. Essex was and what his 'lucrative deal' could be. Neither the fax nor the telephone message left any clues as to his location or how to contact him, not that Martin was keen on being approached in quite such a presumptuous manner by a prospective client or, more likely, a salesman in disguise. One of the things that infuriated Beverley was Martin's tendency to look on this sort of introduction as spurious instead of potentially profitable. While she would waste no time in beating all the buggers to it, he didn't really want anything to do with the buggers in the first place. Not for the first time, he felt resentment at her ability to insinuate herself into his thoughts, like some irresistible, malevolent force. The telephone rescued him from further introspection. 'Minchin Associates, Martin Minchin speaking.'
'Hello, Mr Minchin, it's Dora Simkins here calling on behalf of Mr Parver-Thrupp, just to confirm that we've spoken to the vendor's agent and you may collect the key from us at any time after nine thirty on Friday morning.'
'Oh, thanks very much Mrs Simkins. I'll see you on Friday, then.' He replaced the receiver and stared out of the window at people on the move. The usual mixture of traffic was stop-starting its way in both directions, most of it local citizens in four-wheel-drive vehicles investing fifteen minutes and half a gallon of fuel looking for the free space that would save them twenty pence and a five hundred yard walk from the pay-and-display car park. Most of them probably lived within a mile of the High Street. The sky was littered with vapour trails from airliners carrying passengers on longer journeys. A mixed group of kids, aged around twelve and shrieking with exaggerated laughter as they skived off school, did their best to look cool while breaking every rule in the Green Cross Code to get from Top News to Kebabbaburger. Some of them smoked cigarettes with theatrical ostentation. An unseen fan of techno music was driving somewhere nearby, the boom-boom-ticka-boom almost shaking the building. Martin stared at the sky and tried to remember which letter he had reached.
'Aeroplane,' he said, turning and sitting back at his desk. He opened up a computing magazine that had arrived, uninvited, in his mail. A CD fell from it into his lap. Aeroplane, Bumf, CD – that was clever: two for the price of one. He had a look at the free delights advertised on it and fed it into the front of his PC. A message came up on his screen, Welcome to BizROM 2.6. This CD-ROM has been tested for all known viruses but the publishers accept no liability for any loss or damage caused through or by its use. See the text file README on the root directory for full Conditions. Proceed entirely AT YOUR OWN RISK. Click OK for main menu or EXIT to exit. Escape clause, Fatuous, Garbage.
A dyed in the wool belt-and-braces man, Martin used both of the antivirus programs to which he subscribed to give the disk a third-degree interrogation. Satisfied that it wasn't going to pass to his hard drive a digital black death, he studied the contents and installed a graphics demonstration program named Kwik-Az-A-Krayon. He started it up and, faced with a blank drawing board, typed LOCKKEEPER'S COTTAGE. Aside from dealing with a few telephone calls of little importance, he spent most of the afternoon experimenting, putting the name into rustic looking typefaces and adding pretty borders. Finally satisfied with a version, he sat back, admiring his artwork. Attractive, Bold, Creative. He printed two copies, then carefully extracted every trace of Kwik-Az-A-Krayon from his machine, just in case it decided to assault his data when his back was turned. He began to feel really quite positive about the next phase of his life.
~
He locked the door into the office, went into the smaller room and removed his tie, shoes and the plain grey suit that he always wore on 'non-client' days. He carefully hung it up on the back of the door and pulled on some jeans, a jumper and a pair of trainers, which felt rather more natural on his bare feet. Returning to the main office, he switched on the answering machine, picked up his old transistor radio and the latest issue of Accountancy Age and retired into the lavatory. Ten minutes later, bladder and bowel emptied, hands washed, hair combed and lavatory bowl bleached, he was ready to face the evening. Of course, normally at this stage, he would be preparing to go home. Since, until Friday, this was his home, he had to come up with some other way to fill the time before dinner. He put on an old jacket, picked up his computerised sketch, folded it carefully, slipped it into an inside pocket and left, double locking the door behind him.
It was a warm, dry evening, an early treat of summery weather. As he stepped out onto the pavement, Mehmet's little shop was busy with customers picking up a lazy tea on their way home. Instead of heading down the High Street, he walked in the opposite direction, away from the town centre, then down a narrow footpath. The path ran between the end of a terrace of cottages and the back wall of a disused warehouse that occupied one side of the old cattle market, in which livestock was only a memory after the plethora of food scares in recent years. The alley soon opened out into a haven of well-kept public gardens running alongside the river. A young couple encouraged their two toddlers to throw bread to the excited ducks which were crowding at the low bank, bobbing up and down like the front rows at a rock concert. A pair of swans moved smoothly in and out of the group, claiming more than their fair share of the manna with effortless superiority. On the opposite side was the Shimbley Reaches Nursing Home, a rather austere looking Victorian building in a perfect setting, its close-cropped lawns sloping gently down to the water. Sadly, the owners had been obliged to erect a sturdy fence after one of their elderly charges had lost control of his wheelchair and sped to a watery end. The tragedy occurred on a slow news day and gave Shimbley at least fifteen minutes of fame in the national press.
Another aeroplane, Bread, Child, Duck, Evergreen, Fir tree, Grass. Martin followed the riverside path to the point just outside the town where it met the railway line. Steps led up the bank and a footbridge took him over the tracks to the main road. He walked back towards the town and into the open-air, long-stay car park. It was still early so he decided to drive out to West Vereham for another quick peek at the cottage.
Martin's Alfa Romeo, or, more correctly, Alfasud, which he had christened Alfredo, enjoyed a level of loyalty from its owner that was probably greater than it deserved. The 'sud' part of the name was important, because it signified that the car had not been lovingly created by proud Milanese artisans in Italy's northern industrial heartland; it had been thrown together in Naples by an unmotivated, untrained and underpaid workforce. In addition, the inhabitants of Italy's shin enjoyed a fine, dry climate and had few cares about what the rest of Europe's weather could do to unprotected, low grade steel. Alfasuds, therefore, were now something of a rarity in Britain but, unfortunately for their owners, no more valuable for that. Each annual MOT inspection became more nerve-racking than the last, not least because Alfredo shed bits of bodywork faster than a moulting dog. The accountant's knack of seeking out a tax-efficient little engine ensured that Martin achieved hair-raising fuel consumption, wringing every last ounce of power out of it to make any headway at all. The only hint of the great Latin passion for dramatic, blood red, blindingly quick cars was this Alfasud's strident note, the result of a failing exhaust system.
Martin fiddled around with various keys, trying to open the driver's door and starting, as he always did at this stage, back at A: Alfredo, Bella, C'mon baby. Replacement parts had left him with different keys for each door, the boot, the petrol cap and the ignition, on top of which each lock had its idiosyncrasies. Once in, it took half a minute of churning the starter motor, with the battery becoming weaker and weaker, to coax the little engine into life. Damn well start today you lump of Effluent, Forza, Geriatric Heap of Italian Junk. He gave up at the usual place, this having become almost a religious chant rather than a sincere attempt to reach the middle of the alphabet. At last, two cylinders, then another and, finally, all four burst into song with a spectacular show of oily smoke from the back of the car. As dusk was approaching, he twisted the knob to turn the lights on and it came away in his fingers. Knob. He put it in the ashtray with the other knobs and unidentified bits of plastic and selected a cassette tape from the glove box. He pushed it into the player which promptly disappeared from sight into the dashboard. 'Oh bugger,' he said, indicating right and unknowingly extinguishing his headlights. He pulled out onto the road that led from Shimbley to the Verehams.
On the grass verge in front of Lockkeeper's Cottage, the agent's board had a big 'SOLD' patch pasted onto it. Martin was going to have to hire a skip to remove all the rubbish – the garden had run riot, there were sundry building materials lying around and a rusty old electric cooker blocked the rudimentary drive. He heaved the cooker to one side and brought his car in off the road. A bit of spadework and pruning would soon allow vehicular access to the whole quarter-acre garden. I could build a garage for Alfredo, thought Martin, or dig a bloody great hole. The house appeared to be secure. Peering in through the windows, he could see that the ground floor had been left reasonably tidy, though he knew that he would have to tackle considerable redecorating throughout. He looked around at the garden and imagined lazy afternoons with Earl Grey tea in bone china cups, crustless sandwiches filled with cucumber and smoked salmon and the gentle thwack of a croquet mallet on a wooden ball. He smiled as he remembered that the last time he had played croquet was at university, an occasion which involved strong cider, chocolate biscuits and the distant clunk of a croquet mallet's detached head landing on the roof of a passing car.
He picked his way through some rampant roses to reach the 'well'. For an ornamental structure it had certainly been designed and constructed on a formidable scale: it had a retaining wall about three feet high and four feet or more in diameter, made of the same attractive stone from which many of the older houses were built locally. This was overshadowed by a pitched slate roof supported by two sturdy oak beams that were planted in concrete outside the wall. Between the beams was a winding mechanism with a length of thick rope coiled around it. Some chicken wire had been secured loosely over the well's opening through which the end of the rope descended. Slightly unsettled by its slimy touch, Martin pulled the rope up to find, instead of a bucket, just a frayed end. He didn't suppose that whoever had installed this folly had bothered to dig very deep; perhaps just ten feet or so, for the effect. The agent's description of the property had scrupulously pointed out that this was a decorative, not functional, feature.
As he climbed back into his car, the sun had gone down, leaving a thin line of red on the horizon under a sky that was turning from rich blue to navy. He started the engine and twisted the knobless shaft that operated the lights; his view remained unlit. He twisted the shaft back and forth but the headlights refused to work. He stepped out and inspected both ends of the car; the side and taillights were working, but that was all. He returned to his seat and stared blankly through the windscreen for a half minute or so. It wasn't actually dark yet and it was only a few miles along quiet back roads to street lit sanctuary in Shimbley. 'To hell with it', he muttered and nosed the car through the gap in the hedge. He indicated left and the trees opposite were suddenly bathed in light. 'You're not for the crusher yet, then, 'Fredo,' he said, accelerating down the road with his reversing light shining brightly behind him.