1 THE BIG HOUSE
The
mid May sun shone high, stark and bright; illuminating my breath while my
lapels tried and failed to prevent the chill slipping down my collar like a
snake’s embrace. I pulled my grey coat tighter around a black suit that I wore
it straighter than I wore my head. Spinning and aching. I had no piece on me;
whether that was a mistake would remain to be seen.
Ahead I could see an audacious Jacobethan
mansion that had no right being occupied this side of the Civil War. It
burrowed in the rolling hills like a wolf spider waiting for a fly to come
near. I checked my back for wings before driving up to the front gates.
The gatehouse would have been enough of a
home for a family of six but was too pristine to be wasted on people. It sat to
the left of the track surrounded by a peridot lawn and adorned with emerald
climbers. At the front corner a tower protruded from the roof, slightly
overhanging the corner entrance. Nestled in the tower was a singular round
window that caught the morning sun like a diamond in a jewellery store cabinet.
Look but don’t touch.
I pulled up near a small booth affixed to
the gatehouse and a uniformed man with a rifle appeared. He was quick to make
sure I knew I was being watched. He was square cut and close shaved and very
severe and I was probably a little unnerved by my antithesis of appearance. The
quickness with which he urinated across his territory was contrasted by a lack
of haste in approaching my car window. By the time he reached me and tapped on
the window he’d made it clear who was the boss here. I lowered the window as
slowly as possible.
“State your name and business at Fairburn
Manor,” he instructed.
“Marshall,”
I responded with a smile, “Here to see Mr. Headrow.”
“Marshall,
is that your first name, or last?”
“No.”
“I need a name to put in the log book.”
“Then please put Marshall.”
The guard returned to his booth and
started chattering into a radio. He was animated, and glanced across at me
frequently, probably to make sure I didn’t start climbing the fence. He went
through bouts of anger and silence, and he drew out both for an unnecessarily
long time, during which I decided to light and savour a cigarette. When the
guard spotted me doing so, he hurried the rest of the conversation and charged
back towards me.
“You can not smoke within the grounds,”
he declared. I looked calmly towards the gates and then back at the guard; he
raised an eyebrow in expectation. I drew slowly on the smoke.
“You won’t be getting in at all at this
rate!” he informed me.
“What is this rate?” I asked, “Because to
go slower, I’d have to reverse.”
“Look smart ass…”
“My friends just call me ass.”
“Look! You’ve been cleared, and logged,”
He held up the log book so I could see the entry Mr. Marshall, to see Mr. Headrow, 21st May 2030, “but I ain’t opening the gates until you
put that thing out.”
“Understood.”
He stood and watched, clenching his fists
by his side, as I took the time to enjoy my smoke.
When it was gone, I flicked the cigarette
onto the path. With his eyes still unwaveringly fixed on me, he stepped across
to stub it out before marching back to his booth. He seemed to always either be
marching or dawdling, there was no middle ground. He was off or on.
Begrudgingly, he opened the gates at last and I gave a cheerful wave as I drove
through them.
Within
the fenced grounds there was everything one would expect to see within a
thriving farming community. Off in the distance, looking like flakes of snow
against the far woodland, I could make out the sheep. Nearer were the skittish deer,
feeding on the lower branches. They trimmed the underside of the foliage to a
perfectly level finish. Nearer still men and women toiled and sweated to yield
cabbage, potato and many other such foods that were forgotten by much of the
rest of the country. Squinting my eyes slightly my blurred view made the
livestock and farm-workers seem indistinguishable.
I drove at a respectable speed, and when
I reached the house a footman was waiting for me. I didn’t want to believe that
such a job still existed, after all that was fought over in the war, and the
subsequent poverty that beset most of this country, but there he was. He was
shorter than a basketball player and only half as wide as a Bus. His
trench-coat had red epaulettes and brass buttons and gave an impression
somewhere between hotel concierge and SS officer. By the set of his jaw I
concluded this was intentional. The coat clung to his broad shoulders despite
the thick neck that tried to pry it apart. It hugged his dangerously trim
figure flatteringly except around the hip. I guessed it was not a radio on his
belt that he was so keen to conceal.
The house increased in menace with
proximity. The chimneys and extended gables made it jagged and harsh like the
spines of a reptile. I threw the footman my keys and ascended the stairs to the
front entrance, acutely aware of the tooth-like balusters either side of me.
For all its weight and design, the black
iron knocker thudded flatly and pointlessly on the double oak doors. The
butler, who would have had to be hovering just inside the door to hear, opened
the doors.
I stepped inside.
The
main hall was a relic of more frivolous times, personified by a proud life-size
portrait of a war hero at the top of the grand central staircase. The general’s
regalia revealed a warrior who had fought in battles that had more honour and
meaning than any I had seen. I had often pondered whether people would
romanticise the New Civil War in the same way.
This place was already beginning to grind
me down and wind me up and knowing of my imminent meeting with its owner or
manager or whatever he was, I would need a little help getting through it. Once
the doorman took my coat, I fumbled for the little gold case that I kept within
my jacket pocket. I unclasped the little catch and it sprung open, revealing
six shots, six tiny little injectors. The doorman returned from hanging my coat
and spied the case in my hand for a moment before recognition crossed his face.
“I would ask you to refrain from
exercising such vices on the premises,” he said. There was a slight shudder to
his movements, as though his body was slowly learning to defy him with age,
like a teenage child. I placed the shots back in the pocket, and ignored the
hip flask outlined against his suit jacket. I nodded my head in agreement and
motioned for him to lead the way.
It took the old fellow a fair old while
to show me to my meeting, but eventually we echoed through the old corridors
and got to the dining hall. I had expected a mirror of the refinement and
vintage of the rest of the house, but I was wrong. The room was laid out as
though a military mess hall, long tables accommodated an army of diners, and
troughs of fried foods hugged the left hand edge of the room.
I started towards the head table.
“Marshall?”
called a voice to my right. I turned to see a man in his well polished
seventies. His white beard and moustache were well cut and pointed, the designs
of a man who had had to reallocate some of his grooming efforts due to
baldness. He looked over his thin spectacles with warm smiling eyes.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Mr. Headrow,” he responded, “at your
service. Please, why don’t you join us for a little breakfast?” The men sat
opposite him sidled up to make space for me.
“I already ate, thank you,” I said, still
standing, “Besides, I think there are matters to discuss and perhaps a more
private setting might suit them.”
Mr Headrow looked around at his
companions with a gaze that should have reassured them, were it not for the
hint of caution tickling the wrinkles in his smiling eyes.
“There is nothing to be said,” He
explained, “that cannot be said in front of my friends here. We are like one
big family.”
“That’s adorable. However, you’ve not
heard what I have to say,” I explained, and the caution ebbed into a sprinkling
of worry, “Words in public can not be unheard; words in private may be selected
for public audience.”
There was a reluctant agreement to the
man, like he had analysed the situation thoroughly and abandoned the romantic
notion of kinship in light of the real family we were here to discuss. He
dabbed the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief embroidered with the
initials ‘W.F’.
“As you please,” he sighed.
He rose quickly and powerfully, despite
his age, and gave the surrounding people his apologies. I waited silently, and
then followed silently.
His
office was ample and plush. Green leathers and dark woods were the theme. Like
money and death, or capitalism as they’re known collectively. There were rows
of identically bound leather books along the back wall. In gold leaf the titles
of many classics were just readable. I laughed to myself at the sheer volume of
stories in the collection that revolved around a downtrodden protagonist and
the upheaval of authority. There was also a scattering of artistic sculptures,
Grecian busts and British artillery. I was starting to get a picture of my
client.
“You have a certain way about you Marshall,” Mr Headrow
explained.
“A certain way?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I apologise,” I said, “I am not as well
read as you so all that subtext nonsense doesn’t register on my radar. If you
have an opinion, I suggest you just share it.”
“Okay,” he said, “are you this
confrontational with all of your clients? Or is it just me you choose to
embarrass.”
“People find me an embarrassment generally,
so someone of your stature I would understand to take it very hard.”
“And what stature is that?
I looked around the room as an answer.
“Do not presume,” he continued, “to think
that because I run and maintain this house that I consider myself a Lord. A
Lord does not dine with the servants.”
He motioned towards a seat opposite his
own and I took it. The leather was kind underneath me but the arms were wooden
and sloped down from the back of chair and as a consequence were, despite their
prettiness, quite uncomfortable. Form over function.
“It’s a little early in the day,” he
explained, “but the morning is fresh, and I require a little liquid warmth.
Would you care to join me?”
He opened the top draw of his desk
slightly, before leaning down to pull a bottle and a couple of glasses from the
bottom draw. I accepted, despite knowing that drink was not the answer to the
cold beads forming on my brow. He left the top draw open, but from my seated
position I could not see its contents.
But I wasn’t stupid.
“Perhaps we could leave any prejudices at
the door?” He continued, “at least for the sake of business, if not
amiability.”
“I thought such vices were not to be
enjoyed on the premises,” I said, taking a generous sip of the hooch. “Your
doorman was kind enough to keep me informed of the house rules.”
Headrow sighed, “Poor old Harold does
like to preach purity.”
“Whilst wearing a hip flask?”
“Ha, indeed,” he chuckled, “many people
are more than happy to objectively criticise others rather than look inwards.”
He gave me a look that said I was the target of his comment with about as much
subtlety as a neon-lit fanfare.
“Well at least the flask was better
concealed than your gatekeeper’s rifle. He’s a charming chap. Are you expecting
someone else or was that just a warning to me to keep my hands inside the cart
at all times.”
“Oh God no,” he said, “Look at this
place. There are many that would see fit to try and seize it from us. Some have
tried it, but they have failed. Like him or not, because of people like the gatekeeper,
we have endured the many years that we have.”
As he returned the bottle to its draw, it
clinking as he did so, my attention was drawn to a small canon sat upon his
desk. It was a brass ornament aimed at my chest. I turned the canon to face off
to the side.
“Oh and please call me Wilson,” he continued, “I have never had need
to use a Private Investigator before, but I would prefer not to be so formal
about the whole affair.”
“I’m sorry to tarnish your record.”
“I don’t see it as a tarnishing.”
“You will, there’s time,” I put my empty
glass down and noticed the back of my left hand was beginning to itch. I gave
it a good scratch.
“You don’t seem particularly apt at
trying to sell your wares,” Headrow said.
“I am who and what I am. If I pretended I
was something else, that would not be good selling of wares. That would be
selling different wares entirely.”
“I suppose. So what will I get?”
“Answers,” I explained, “but not only the
ones you want. I will not promise to limit my talents to only finding selected
answers. I bring you all that I find; it is up to you to…”
“Select the answers for public audience?”
“Exactly.”
“So what you are saying, what you are
warning, in a less than modest way, is that you are too effective?”
“What I am saying is that I get hired to
find out a truth, not all of them.
The problem with truths is that they are like ants, you can’t stir one awake
without the whole nest spilling out in all directions.”
“I see.”
You’d be amazed at the amount of business
I had lost with this approach. Amazed, but probably not surprised. Mr. Headrow
looked at me steadily, despite the obvious discomfort I caused him. He allowed
a gentle sigh which flicked at his moustache like a cat with a ball of wool,
and then smiled.
Re-aiming the brass canon at me, he got
up from his chair and approached a window. He gazed out on his workers, but he
was looking at the world at large. He was perplexed. People never understand
the other side of the fence.
“Perhaps we should discuss your daughter
now,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” he said with the tone of a
teenager tasked with tidying his room.
“With disappearances,” I continued, “the
speed of response can be crucial to the outcome.”
“I am sure that is true,” he said. His
resigned calm had started to bother me. He picked up one of the military
figurines sat in the window. I could not see well from my position but the
little plastic man held a small sword and pistol and had a blue jacket with red
epaulettes.
“You do not like me do you? You consider
me the enemy. You assume me to be an oppressor because I value comfort, culture
and history.”
“It is irrelevant. Liking you is not a
pre-requisite of my job.”
“But liking my money is.” Headrow
suggested, “I want you to understand I have helped people here. I have grafted
and bled to build a civilised sanctuary here, a safe haven from the crooks and
the thieves and the whores and the murderers that this world has permitted to
fester, like the great steaming cesspit it has become since the war. You might
not like what I do, but it’s easy to dismiss an open fire as indulgent before
you step out into the cold night. I am and always have been driven by the need
to preserve all that was once good about this country. What are your
motivations, other than money?”
I pondered the deeper answers to that
question before answering: “Stuff that I can buy with money. The world was on
its way to becoming a cesspit long time ago, the war just stirred it up, and
made the shit stink so that no one could pretend it wasn’t there anymore.”
“Well it certainly stinks now.”
“Yeah it does. And whilst you may be a
saviour and a champion, I am the mercenary thug, wading in the gutter. And I
charge by the day for my wading, so I think we should move things along.”
I stood up suddenly, and he span round,
frightened I might attack. I reached over the desk and seized the pistol from
his top draw. I noticed his hands withdraw slightly, as though he were ready to
put them up.
The pistol was some sort of Webley, a
service pistol from the First World War. I broke open the revolver for
reloading and the extractor emptied the six bullets onto the floor. I examined
the mechanics of the gun, smiled wryly to myself and then clicked the pistol
back shut and placed it on the desk.
Headrow cautiously moved back to his
chair, and stood behind it, as though leather would stop bullets.
It took him a couple of minutes to decide
what to do next, but at least it was sensible. He collected the empty pistol,
packed it away, sat down face to face, and apologised.
“It was not my intention to insult you,”
he explained, “I respect what you do, and I am at your mercy. Please understand
that I have fallen on peculiar times, very peculiar indeed.”
“Peculiar how?”
“Oh you need not concern yourself with
that. But my daughter going missing is just a symptom.”
“Just a symptom? Such concern warms my
heart. I think I’m welling up?”
“Please do not jest. I am more concerned
than you can know, but I am under no false pretence that this is about her. If
she has been taken, then it is more than certain a scheme to get at me. I am
acutely aware that my views have a shrinking place in the modern world, and I
rub people up the wrong way. Believe me, you are not the first person to take a
dislike to me Marshall, I have plenty of enemies in the town of Oldport.”
“Well if you are expecting a ransom, or
some other form of blackmail,” I explained, “you should just pay them, instead
of me.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone in the town
is as stable as to accept a fair trade. I imagine I will be exploited for
whatever wealth I have. Once I and this house have been bled dry, both I and my
daughter will likely come to harm regardless.”
“It’s funny,” I explained, “none of this
was in the agency’s case notes. All the information I had been given was that
your daughter was missing, likely in the nearby town. There was nothing
mentioned about neighbours with bad blood and strong agendas.”
“It was not necessary to include such
detail.”
“If you say so, but understand I am not
here to sort out the politics of this town; I am just looking for the girl.”
“And that’s all I ask of you. The rest is
my problem and I will deal with it, I am dealing with it. I just want my Sarah
back where I can protect her.”
He began to weep, and tried to conceal it
by reaching down for the bottle once more. I endured the charade. He poured
himself another slug and knocked it back; it didn’t touch the sides. He poured
another and then offered me one; I declined. I waited for the tears to abide
before continuing.
“So has anyone tried to contact you
regarding a deal?” I asked.
“No,” he whimpered, “not yet, but she
only went missing last night.”
“Is there anyone in particular who might
seek to harm or take her?”
“Ha,” Headrow exclaimed, “wait till you
get to Oldport. Everyone there is a crook and a thief and looking for a way to
exploit me.”
“What about her room? Anything in there
that would indicate she had connections or intentions within the town?”
“She had a Spartan room. She liked to
dream of being one of the common people. Possessions were meaningless
frivolities to her.”
“Well have you any leads at all? Anywhere
for me to start looking?”
“There is one thing.” He explained, “My
footman seems to have had a run in with someone. It was some girl who had
something of Sarah’s. That is all I know, you will have to talk to him about
it. He’ll be with your car in the garage.”
I
made my way to the garage. I was relieved to be able to collect my vehicle
myself and avoid the needless extravagance of having it brought round for me.
The garage was a vast empty space, larger
than a garden shed, but smaller than an airbus hangar. My car seemed lost
amongst the five other vehicles, three trucks, a shiny black saloon and a
little hatchback that looked like a personal project that would require some
TLC. To my left was a little makeshift workstation-come-kiosk. There was a log
book of the comings and goings of vehicles. Everything was audited and
scrutinised, any time spent in this house was accompanied by a four-fold amount
spent on the subsequent paperwork. Behind the kiosk, on the wall amongst the
fire procedure and various contact numbers was a row of hooks. I looked amongst
them and picked out my keys.
“You with the CivLib, right?” a voice
behind me asked. Keys in hand, I turned slowly.
“Was,” I said, “The Civil Liberation is more
of a past tense kind of thing.”
“Right,” The footman in his military
concierge jacket clicked shut a shiny lighter and drew heavily on a cigarette,
then offered me one. There was a dopey calm to his eyes and he examined me like
a lion examines a fly that has landed on its paw. I declined the offer of a
smoke.
“Your call,” he said as though humouring
me, “but I’ve seen that face before, I know what it means.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well I don’t think you’ve got sweat on
your brow because you’re nervous, you don’t seem the nervous type. But I’ve
seen a lot of people who were in the war, and most of them had that face.
There’s nothing wrong with needing something to calm your shakes.”
“I’m fine, thank you. So what’s the deal
with this house, I thought we’d seen the last of these kinds of places.”
“These kinds of places?”
“You know,” I explained, “Mr Headrow
likes to pretend this is just a nice location for a haven, but he’s just
playing Lord.”
“He’s not playing anything.”
“So why are there so many toys in his
office, so many little soldiers?”
“Mr Headrow is a supervisor, not a Lord
or anything like that. The problem with you CivLib lot is that you think you
won, but you didn’t reform society, you destroyed it. Now everyone has to take
their bit and build it up and give it organisation so it can be worth something
again. And every organisation needs a core to guide it.” He took a long draw,
“Perhaps you resent this place because you are naïve enough to think that a
house is defined by its bricks rather than its people. I tell you what son,
you’ll miss it once you’re in Oldport, a rotten slum riddled with poverty,
famine and organised crime.”
“Perhaps you are naïve enough to think
that there is a difference between organised crime and business, aside from the
agenda of those in charge. Maybe that’s why Headrow’s so worried about his
daughter, perhaps she challenged his agenda.”
“There are unsavoury characters in
Oldport that might use Sarah to get to him.”
“Still doesn’t mean she left
unwillingly…”
His eyes narrowed at me, like I had just
undergone metamorphosis and changed into a different form of adversary. I keep
hoping that one of these days I’m going to end up a beautiful butterfly.
“Lord Headrow said something vague,” I
continued, “about you coming across a lead.”
He nodded as he drew the last puff of
smoke from his cigarette. Seemingly refocused, he snubbed it out on the wall
and tossed it into a nearby bucket of sand.
“Some skag-head or something,” he
explained, “somehow she had gotten hold of Sarah’s notebook. I’ve no idea how
that happened but this little brat thought she could blackmail us for it.”
“How much did she ask for it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“How much?”
He paused for a moment and then
resignedly said, “Ten quid.”
“You paid?”
“Of course not.” He exclaimed, “I don’t
get my arm twisted by little runts like her just so she can get the next fix!
It’s the principle.”
“Well you can explain your principles to
Sarah,” I said, “after we’ve fished her out of the sea.”
The footman grabbed me with both hands and
pinned me against the kiosk by my lapels. He put his face almost against mine.
His eyes had lost their dopey calm and in its place was a tormented anger
filled with bile.
“You two hot for each other then?” I
asked. It was not the first time I had been pinned to a wall and he seemed
annoyed that I wasn’t struck dumb.
“I care what happens to Sarah,” he said
diplomatically. He loosened his grip slightly.
“Then you should have paid the ten,” I
said, pushing him away from me, “now I’ve got to track it down and pay whatever
someone decides to charge.”
“Just bill it to Headrow. He’ll pay
whatever you need.”
“You assume it’ll be money I have to
trade. Where can I find the girl? Did she leave an address?”
“Her kind doesn’t have addresses. They
sleep wherever the night takes them.” He explained, “If I were you I would head
for the old primary school. It’s like a den for skag-heads these days.”
“Thankfully for you, you are not me. The
burden of independence weighs heavily,” I said, brushing my jacket off, “Thank
you for your time, it has been most illuminating. I may have a few more
questions in time. Do you have a name, or does Headrow just click his fingers?”
“Hector Drake,” he said, “don’t forget
it.”
“How could I forget you, the man with the
principles?”
He was not amused and the humourless mask
did not budge the whole time I was climbing into the car and starting the
engine. He stared at me with his best ever tough guy stare and I felt
positively shaken. I wound the window down.
“You know,” I called out to him, “you’re
not much of a doorman if you don’t get the door.”
He plodded over to the nearest garage
entrance and hauled the door open by hand to demonstrate his strength. It was
like he did not understand how unthreatening a perpetual and clingy need to
impress can be. I tossed a coin tip onto the floor for his efforts as I drove
on out.
Once
I had driven my car out of the compound and a little way down towards the
coast, I pulled off into some woods. The track was barely passable, but I
wanted to be well out of sight, and frankly I was numb to the juddering of the
vehicle beneath me.
The trees grew thick overhead, and after
a few more metres turned to pines. The ground beneath me turned to a soft
carpet of dead pine needles. I slowed to a stop and got out, stumbling as I
did. My haze embellished the softness underfoot to the point I felt I was
walking on clouds. I groped for the packet in my inner left pocket.
I observed once more the six equal sized
cylinders with concealed needles ready to inject their liquid salvation. I
pulled one from the line and twisted the seal. I plunged it into my shoulder
and my healing was complete.
The dust and pollen floating in the light
beams that broke the canopy looked as shards of tiny glass. I bathed my
outstretched arm in the glow and felt imaginary warmth sear my skin. I let the
glorious flame engulf my body to the point of ecstasy, as I slumped against a
rotting tree on mould-ridden forest floor.
The highs were lasting shorter and
shorter amounts of time and it was not long before I felt my body waking up and
rejecting the drug. I rolled myself over and vomited on the ground. Wiping my
lips, my eyes watering, I tried to right myself. And then the same thing
happened that always happened at this point.
I saw my dead brother.
“I’ll never understand why you always
make me watch this,” Jake asked me, his eyes were empty black hollows and yet
they still pierced like bayonets.
“I didn’t ask you here.”
“No?” quizzed Jake, “then why do this to
yourself, if not to bring me here? It doesn’t look a whole lot of fun.”
“I’m sorry Jakob.”
“I know you are.”
“Not just for bringing you here, for
everything.”
“I know.”
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