The Dance of the Pheasodile

by Tim Roux

  Chrissie took a breath. She had only been half listening. She was still in a state of shock about the children. She didn’t reply immediately, then she said “I don’t remember breaking anybody’s bones to become a partner, no Mr. Plant.”

  “Yer can’t go around callin’ me ‘Mr. Plant’. I’m yer kid brother.”

  “At this moment you are the kidnapper of my children,” Chrissie stated levelly.

  “Yer’ll get ‘em back, yer know yer will.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t here now.”

  “Neah, that’s right.” He continued with his line of thought. “In a lawyers firm it is all words and ‘ushed conversations in toilets, or power breakfasts or plannin’ lunches, or dinner-time schmoozin’, gettin’ the right people on yer side to get yer promoted, but yer ‘ave to beat the competition just the same. When yer got yer partner job, some other bugger didn’t. Yer had to stamp all over ‘im or ‘er to get there. It’s the law of the world. It’s the law of the jungle. It ‘appens everywhere. Same with Keith ‘ere. Same with every bugger. Another glass of wine?”

  After telling his story to the full, he insisted on listening to ours. I had to hand it to him, he proved himself to be a very good listener. Contrary to his own assessment, he really did empathise with his staff, and by now he definitely regarded us as being a temporary part of his crew, sort of national vocation trainees, there to learn from the old hand. He wanted to know everything about us, and especially about the care home.

  “Yer see,” he said, “’arry never ‘ad any of that, ‘arry ‘n’ Kathy didn’t. No bugger took an interest in ‘em where they were dragged up. It was an ‘ard school, literally like. It was like ‘ere in Bransholme. Yer fought yer way to the top, ‘n’ yer didn’t fight fairly. ‘arry was a natural too. ‘e didn’t care who ‘e stepped on, not even his little sis. If givin’ Kathy to a few of the lads got ‘im where ‘e wanted to be, that was all right with ‘im. It did ‘im in in the end, of course, but yer can’t calculate that far forward. One step at a time, perhaps two. Yer two were lucky, reet lucky. I ‘ope yer appreciate it.”

  “We had to work pretty hard too,” I protested. “It wasn’t that easy for us.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not knockin’ yer achievements. I never knock achievements. Yer’ve done reet well for yersens, but ‘arry and Kathy didn’t ‘ave the advantages yer two ‘ad, you ‘ave to concede that. A place where the boss looks out for yer is very different from a place where the boss ‘n’ the staff are vicious buggers, even more vicious than the kids. In some ways, I ‘ad it more like yer. Leggit looked out for me. If it ‘adn’t been for ‘im, I wouldn’t be where I am, that’s for sure. I would be wastin’ my life in a packin’ shed somewhere, or fannyin’ around like Nobby and Sylvester ‘n’ that lot, spendin’ half my life be’ind bars. I wouldn’t ‘ave been the boss with twenty people workin’ for me, not countin’ the kids, ‘n’ all the cash I can think of. Don’t worry, it’s not what yer see ‘ere. It’s all stashed away for me retirement when I’ll go ‘n’ rest me bones in Spain or some’at. If I started surroundin’ mesen with me ill-gotten gains, bought mesen an ‘ouse ‘n’ a Roller, DI Martin would be around in no time tellin’ me to tone it down or to accompany ‘im to the cop shop. Yer can’t spit in the face of coppers like ‘im, not even me.”

  When it got to ten o’clock, Planty decided it was time for bed. He lent us some new toothbrushes and was very insistent that we went to the toilet. We half-guessed why and, sure enough, it was because he intended to lock us into our room. Both of us immediately glanced over to the window which had been very professionally secured as well.

  “Night, Sis. Night bro-in-law. See yer in the mornin’. Don’t let the bed-bugs bite yer.”

  Chrissie and I whispered for a while, without coming to any conclusion as to what to do, and without making any progress at all, beyond the fact that Chrissie was now talking to me again, and had either temporarily forgotten my misdeeds or forgiven me. Only time would tell.

  We fell asleep.

  I woke up to a purposeful figure marching into the room, armed with a crowbar. “Get up, ‘arry, or I’ll whack yer one where yer are!” It was Planty. I began to twist my way out of bed and he whacked me anyway, right across the thigh. I screamed. He whacked me again. I fell on the floor. He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me out of the bedroom, across the landing to another room. To my horror I realised that he had a full torture chamber set up there. This was where he must have brought me before when I was Harry. He clasped handcuffs around my wrists and hauled me upright by the chains they were attached to. He took the crowbar and smashed me in the stomach. “Yer never bloody listen do yer, ‘arry. Never bloody listen.” He smashed my left leg with the crowbar, then the right leg, then the left leg again, and so on for several minutes. He had worked himself up into a frenzy of grievances against me. He wanted literally to reduce me to pulp. I was barely conscious when he exchanged the crowbar for a pair of pliers and switched his angle of attack. The pain was searing through me. He put the pliers down again, and with a little self-satisfied sigh he picked up a fret saw. I didn’t remember a fret saw from before. He came at me and he started sawing through my fingers, one after the other, showing me each one as he removed it. There was nothing I could do except to try to lose consciousness.

  Instead, I woke up. I was covered in sweat, and Chrissie was holding me trying to calm me down. I looked at my hand and all the fingers were still there. My legs and arms were untouched. I had never left the room. Planty’s voice came through the door “Are yer all right in there, Keith? Yer must ‘ave been ‘avin’ a bit of a nightmare. I did try to warn yer about those bedbugs.”

  * * *

  Planty allows us out of our room at eight, and we follow him downstairs. We have been hearing food preparation clinks and crashes climbing the stairs for over half-an-hour, but we have not been expecting such a lavish display. Planty clearly takes his breakfasts seriously.

  "Just the coffee to come. 'ope yer like it."

  He has the side table ranged with aluminium dishes containing (separately) scrambled egg, fried eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread. Across the middle of the dining table there are both chocolate and blackcurrant muffins, croissants and pain au chocolat, with butter, jam, marmalade and honey arranged around them. As a final dramatic flourish, there is an enormous bowl of assorted exotic fruit – kiwis, passion fruit, star fruit, mangoes and paw-paws. It is too early for him to have slipped out to Waitrose this morning. It doesn’t open until half-past-eight or nine. He must have bought them yesterday, which means that he already knew we were coming up to Hull and when to bump into us coming out of Queen’s Gardens. That had not been a coincidence. The only three people who could have tipped him off were DI Martin, Mike or Fran, and it was Fran who knew we were waiting at the Humber Crown Hotel. He couldn’t have realised in advance that we would be stopping there. I wonder what his Plan B had been to prevent us from leaving the area – something to do with Tommy perhaps?

  Planty approaches Chrissie and kisses her on both cheeks, then formally shakes my hand. "This is to apologise for lockin’ yer in last night. Regrettable, but necessary. Tuck in!"

  "Trevor," I exclaim. "This is amazing!" It sounds spontaneous and heartfelt even to me who knows it is neither of those things. I don't forgive false imprisonment easily.

  "It is amazing," Chrissie echoes, and she is being honest, I can tell.

  Planty looks secretly pleased with her appreciation. "I'm glad yer like it, Sis," he says.

  Without our discussing it, I detect that Chrissie has decided to run a charm offensive. "Trevor," she says, "can you assure me that the children are safe?"

  "They're in excellent 'ands."

  "And they aren't too worried?"

  "We've told 'em that they're on their way to meet yer on a surprise 'oliday, which is almost true, come to think on it."

  "They must be a little concerned," Chrissie persists. "Can I
talk to them to assure them that everything is okay?"

  "I don't see why not," Planty concedes. "Before or after breakfast?"

  "I'd enjoy my breakfast much more if I had spoken with the children first."

  "Okay, no problem." Planty dials one set of numbers, waits, and dials a second set of numbers. "The call can’t be traced," he explains, "in case ye’re wonderin’."

  Chrissie remains silent, demure and expectant.

  "’ullo, Plant 'ere. Chrissie wants to talk to ‘er kids. Can yer put 'em on? Ta."

  He passes the handset over to Chrissie. "Hello, Ella darling," she enthuses. "Are you enjoying our surprise? You don't know who these people are? They are friends of your new Uncle Trevor. Isn't that exciting? I have a brother I never knew existed until yesterday, and we want to go away and celebrate. Shouldn't you be at school? Yes, you should, darling, but family is more important than everything, and the school doesn't mind. They have given us three weeks off. You play with Uncle Trevor's friends for a few days, while we get to know Uncle Trevor better, then we'll all join up and go on holiday. Won't that be exciting? I have discovered a brother I never knew I had, and you have three weeks additional holiday. And Jack and Natty? Sam and Jerry suggested they could keep you company, and the school agreed. Sorry, it was all arranged in a bit of a rush. We'll do better next time I discover a new brother. Actually, Uncle Trevor says I have a new sister too, but I haven't met her yet."

  She keeps up this gushing rigmarole with all four children for over forty minutes, during which time I notice Planty eyeing his breakfast first longingly, then frustratedly, and finally irritatedly. Nevertheless, when Chrissie comes off the phone he claps her and adds "Good work, Sis," before ushering her precipitately into starting her breakfast, launching in gluttonously right behind her. I have been assuming that the spread before us would defeat ten people but, in the end, it barely seems enough to satisfy Planty alone. How does a man eat so much and remain so slim? Is he bulimic, or does he have the nervous energy of a miniature power station?

  Having stoked his boiler sufficiently to generate enough steam to hold a modest-length conversation, Planty continues "Yer know what I want from yer, don't yer? I want consternation, I want panic, I want every child in the country to be considered at risk. Yer could call it public safety broadcastin’.” He chuckles. “I need yer ‘n’ the other parents to get some key messages across. Fost, say that these are great, obedient kids – didn’t deserve anythin’ like this to ‘appen to ‘em. Two, yer should say that they were playin’ safely in the garden – yer thought there was nowt to fear. Three, ye’re terrified as to what the kidnappers’re doin’ to ‘em. Four, yer fear that yer will never see ‘em again. Then lots of bawlin’, ‘n’ the big appeal – if owt knows anythin’ about their whereabouts etc.. If yer can do that convincingly, yer’ll ‘ave yer kids back inside a couple of weeks, no sweat. They really are on their ‘olidays, yer know. I wish I ‘ad ‘ad their luck as a kid. I wouldn’t ‘ve missed me dad either.”

  “Can we see them?” Chrissie asks.

  “I don’t see ‘ow that works, Sis. ‘ow do yer get to see ‘em. Ye’re bein’ trailed by the coppers. It wouldn’t work. I would if I could for yer, Sis. Sorry. No-can-do.”

  “And we’ll definitely get them back within two weeks.”

  “Definitely, I swear on’t, so long as there is no monkey business from yer side. Pull a fast’un, ‘n’ the deal is off.”

  “We will play it straight, Trevor.”

  “Who knows, Sis, I may even cut yer in on the profits. That ‘arry, yer can say this about ‘im, ‘e ‘ad a devious mind on ‘im, that man.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Planty suggests that it is time for us to head south to begin our work. The BMW is still intact, which is a miracle considering where it was parked. It even looks as if someone may have washed it, inside and out, which is a bit worrying.

  Turning on the GPS (it is incredible that the windows weren’t smashed for that alone), we go through the centre of Hull again before tracking the river out past the hotel where Planty in effect kidnapped us, and away.

  We are virtually silent for the first few minutes, but we get into our stride as we hit the motorway when I don’t need to think any more for thirty-three miles until the M18.

  Chrissie is in quite a state which you would never have guessed from her behaviour in front of Planty. She is desperate to see the children. “They are really scared,” she says. “They didn’t believe a word that I told them, but they were so brave! How can you be that brave at the age of seven? Poor Mark, what has he gone through this year already?”

  “So they know they have been kidnapped?”

  “Yes, they knew, but at least I could talk to them. At least they know that I can reach them. That must be some comfort.”

  I think that part of the trauma is also the suspicion that Planty may really be her brother. We still don’t know for sure, but Chrissie thinks that it is a real possibility, and maybe even a saving grace. “I know that he tortured and killed Harry without the least compulsion, and he was his brother, but knowing that he is dealing with his nephew and niece may at least restrain him a little should he plan anything drastic. If it is true about his being my brother, I think I can play on that a bit. It is the only thing we have.”

  “What do you think about being his sister?”

  “It’s scary, isn’t it? He’s scary, but he is also something of a little boy lost. He has family. He still has Kathy and Fran and Tommy, but he seemed to crave genuine, respectable family, like you and me. I think we’ll be okay. I hope to God we’ll be okay.”

  “It’s weird that Harry was his brother.”

  “It happens in families, I suppose. It even happens in my family.” She laughs unexpectedly at the warmth of having discovered kinsfolk after more than thirty years.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  Not only do we have to deal with our own anxieties, but we are confronted with Jerry’s and Sam’s full-on neuro-storm when we get back to Wokingham.

  Chrissie tries really hard to assure them that everything will turn out all right if they do not panic, but they are all-out hysterical, and it is exhausting just to watch them hopping up and down, wailing and gnashing. I really feel like saying “For God’s sake, get a grip. It is really dangerous to react this way. You are firing off in all directions. Calm yourselves. Take some deep breaths. Take a breath. This needs planning, not a freaked-out middle-class war dance.”

  They keep repeating “What will they do to them?”, and we keep answering “Nothing. They are not going to do anything to them.” Sam repeats “My babies, my babies, my babies,” while Jerry hangs his head low and ponders his children’s distress in their abandonment.

  “Well, there is one thing,” Chrissie observes cynically when we are alone in the kitchen together. “If they keep this up, Planty will be ecstatic about how his key messages are being delivered. We had better get them in front of some cameras and a pack of marauding reporters fast.”

  This is easily achieved as the police are as eager to get us broadcasting to the nation as Planty is. If only they knew the extent to which they are playing into his hands. After all, I know the game. I invented it with Kathy and Mike only a couple of months back. Will they never learn? No. The pressure on the police to be seen to be doing something is irresistible.

  The police set up the press conference in the Madejski Hotel in Reading. We are met by a swirling throng of reporters shouting their questions over the top of each other, even though they will have their orderly turns within a few minutes. This is a feeding-frenzy story for them, with four young children kidnapped, leading to the enticing page-turning possibility of their murder and/or sexual abuse. They none of them spare our feelings. During the Q&A, they cut straight to the grizzliest and most gruesome possibilities. How distressed are they likely to be? Are they being looked after properly, do we think? Won’t they be missing their parents? Might they be mo
lested? Might they be sold into slavery? Might they already be dead? What does it feel like to have the prospect of never seeing them again? At the end of all that lot, even Chrissie and I are sobbing and shrieking. Planty must be rubbing his hands together over another voluminous breakfast, unless those are put on exclusively for honoured guests.