His feisty performance with Pete’s helpful intervention was all well and good at seeing off Sir Magnus and the peculiar Frau Doktor von Strumpet on this their first foray onto his territory, but would Jeremy be able to repeat the act? What if the next time Sir Magnus did come with reinforcements? Of shrinks all pre-tested and guaranteed porcine-phobia-free? Jeremy’s playground bravado was one thing, but there was no good pretending it could frighten off a whole phalanx of Freudians armed to the teeth with not only gloomy ideas about sex and death but probably also hypodermics stuffed with benzodiazepine cocktails sufficient to fell a rabid rhino. There was little either Jeremy or Pete would be able to do to fend off that kind of attack, the very kind “Monty”—as Sir Magnus liked to be called whenever prating about his supposed role in government financial support for the Special Forces in Iraq and Afghanistan—which could include not only heavily armed mind benders but also heavily armed soldiers.
Mmm.
The problem was Jeremy didn’t have a plan, or even the outlines of one, his strategy thus far having extended only to hiding in his barn and having a bit of a think about what choice and madness were or were not. Fine, so he’d decided he had been chosen but it wasn’t him that was bonkers, it was the world, but no time had yet been devoted to considering his future. Short-termist? Well, you might say so but would you have had a plan up your sleeve in Jeremy’s circumstances? I don’t think so. Just let us say that since the unwelcome visit of Sir Magnus and the peculiar German, the ante had been upped. Think of it as a weather forecast in which the storm warning has been raised from amber to red.
Mmmm.
More pacing. And, irritatingly, Jeremy had taken to counting the number of paces. The mental calculator wouldn’t stop: One hundred and thirty-one, one hundred and thirty-two, one hundred and thirty-three, and…so...on and on. Jeremy was beginning to feel like one of those health freaks with an electronic gizmo on their arm counting the number of steps they take on their fitness programmes. Crazy was what he used to dismiss them as. But now he was at it too. Did this mean, despite all his best efforts at asserting his sanity, deep, deep down he was batshit too and had only been deluding himself?
One hundred and fifty-eight, one hundred and fifty-nine...
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he was saying, leaving off the pacing to bang his head on a flimsy wall for a bit when there came more tapping at the barn door. Only, mercifully this time it was coded. Two taps, pause; three taps, another pause; six taps—then silence.
“Barry?” whispered Jeremy, sidling to the door and nestling his ear against it.
“Everything okay in there?” said Barry, parking his wheelbarrow. “Only I seen them geezers what was just with you. Didn’t like the look of then, did I? And I was just wondering...”
“Barry? Come in. Come in,” counter-whispered Jeremy, opening the door a crack and peering over the gardener’s shoulder at the estate behind him. “Have they gone?”
“The posh bloke and the weepy fräulein bint? Yeah, they’re gone. Little chat on the doorstep with your missus and the parents, then they were off in ’is bleedin’ great motor, weren’t they?”
“Good. Good. Quick quick. Come in.”
“You all right, boss, are you? Lookin’ a bit peeky.”
“I’m all right...well, sort of. Don’t suppose you brought any supplies?”
“The nuts an’ berries an’ water? Yeah, got them in my barrow, haven’t I?”
“Nothing...um...you know...stronger?”
Barry grinned.
“You mean, like...?”
Jeremy pinched his jaw between a thumb and a forefinger and rolled his eyes.
Barry smiled.
“You mean the little bottle of nettle homebrew I keep in my satchel for emergencies, boss?”
“Um...”
“Yeah, I got one of those. Two, matter of fact.”
“Step this way, Bazza,” said Jeremy.
‘Bazza’ was what Jeremy called Barry for fun. Me Jezza, you Bazza was one of their in-jokes. At least self-mockery made Jeremy feel a little better at having been a banker wanker for so long. And Barry got the irony. It evened things out between them.
“So, wazzup, bro? Where’re you at?” he said, once he’d patted Pete on the head and broken open both bottles of the nettle brandy with significant additives of Barry’s own design he refused to disclose to anyone, even Jeremy, claiming so to do would be to open his soul to the world. Which he wasn’t going to. No way, Hozay, he wasn’t.
It was later, in his cups, that Jeremy spilled the beans to Barry—all of them, including the whole choosing/chosen/madness nightmare. And, strangely, Barry seemed to understand.
Four
And what, you will be wondering, was the content of the “little chat on the doorstep” Sir Magnus and Frau Professor Doktor Gisela von Strumpf had with Sophie, Gloria, and Ron before hopping into the “bleedin’ great motor”—the midnight blue Bentley 4x4—and being driven away?
Well, Jeremy had been correct in assuming they would be returning with backup. At least Sir Magnus would. Gisela von Strumpf reckoned she would only take part in an advisory capacity from a safe distance, but was prepared to recommend any number of her colleagues with more relaxed attitudes to pigs. And, to that contingent Sir Magnus was prepared to add some chums of his from his time as “financial counsellor” to the army’s Special Forces in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“Not the sorts of boys you would want to mess with,” he told Sophie, Gloria, and Ron. “No time for nutcases in their business, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t want a nutcase covering your back when there’re crazed Islamist terrorists running about, now would you? So these boys sorted out their heads when they went wonky. Do a job on our Jezza they would, and no question.”
Ron, who had once served six weeks in the Territorial Army, was impressed.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Spine, that’s what that boy needs. And somebody to knock a bit of sense into it.”
“Glad we’re on the same page, old chap. Now, look, Frau Professor Doktor von Strumpf and I really should be taking our leave, so...”
But Sir Magnus and von Strumpf weren’t allowed to leave until Sophie, after some umming, ahhing and looking sheepish, had unveiled to him the family’s own plan for dealing with Jeremy should all other means fail.
“Just in case, narmean? Only as a last resort,” she said before wondering what Sir Magnus might think about “doing away” with Jeremy if—and only if, of course—he didn’t respond to any of these “treatments” and got sane enough to go back to the bank and start making the kinds of money the family so badly needed to continue their “lifestyles.”
“You mean kill him?” said Sir Magnus.
“And with any luck his pig too,” thought Frau Professor Doktor Gisela von Strumpf, but didn’t say so out loud.
“Yes,” said Sophie. “Only not, like, real killing with a gun. Nothing we’d get blamed for. Just helping him along the way a bit. Some little pills in his nuts and berries that would make it look like suicide. After all, he is bonkers, so suicide thoughts would be normal, narmean? So...”
“And his very own parents would be agreeable to such skulduggery?” asked Sir Magnus, staring at Gloria and Ron for confirmation.
“We’ve talked it over with Sophie. Ain’t we, girl?” Gloria admitted with faux glumness.
Sophie nodded with faux reluctance.
“And it seems to us, it would be best for all concerned.”
“Mainly poor old Jeremy himself,” said Ron. “Put him out of his misery. Same way you’d do with a horse after it’s broken its leg. The kindest thing to do.”
“And all this just for his inheritance?” said Sir Magnus.
Sophie, Gloria, and Ron checked with each other, and nodded.
“And his own good, seeing as he’s gone bonkers,” said Ron. “He’s my son and I’ll miss him. But a loony’s a loony, right? And where’re we going to get the money from to keep him in a loony
bin for the rest of his life? Nowhere, that’s where.”
Sir Magnus could see Ron’s point, but then there was self-interest to take into account too, namely Sir Magnus’s which relied heavily on getting Jeremy back to work as soon as possible in order to ensure the bank’s, and even more critically Sir Magnus’s, continuing financial fluidity.
“It’s a plan, chaps,” he conceded. “It…is...indeed...a...plan, but not a very good one in my view. First little problem, the small matter of the goose and the golden eggs, eh?”
Sir Magnus raised both shaggy eyebrows. “In which scenario we would all be a lot better off with Jeremy alive. In my humble opinion, anyway.”
Sophie, Ron and Gloria exchanged dubious glances.
“But if it’s poor old Jeremy’s life insurance pot you’re hoping to get your mitts on,” Sir Magnus continued, “I’m afraid you’d have to go whistle if it’s his own life he’s taken. Insurance johnnies are not at all keen on coughing up in those circs. Indeed, last I heard it was against the bally law.”
Sophie, Gloria, and Ron exchanged gloomy glances.
“Soo...meantime, shall we perhaps continue with my little scheme? Clearly, should it not work out to the satisfaction of all our desires, one might need to consider alternatives, although Jezza’s demise would not in my view be the most productive of them. But get him right in the head again and we can all look forward to decades of productivity before he pops his clogs.”
Sophie, Gloria and Ron smiled, albeit rictally.
“Now...I’m afraid I really must dash. Busy, busy, busy. People to see. Places to go, so bysie-bye for now. I’ll be in touch. Come on, Gizzly,” said Sir Mortimer, taking Frau Professor Doktor von Strumpf by the hand and leading her away to the waiting Bentley.
~ * ~
Not such a little doorstep chat then, a pretty wide-ranging one. Just as well that Barry, having overheard it from his weeding duties in a cluster of giant hydrangea bushes around the corner, was in no hurry to pass on all of its contents to Jeremy. Poor bloke had enough on his plate already without family death threats to contend with, he reckoned. Sophie’s, Gloria’s, and Ron’s desire to kill their husband/son he would therefore keep schtum about. But, having listened with empathy to Jeremy’s bean-spilling version of recent chosen/madness issues and then his worries about further incursions by Sir Magnus, Barry felt obliged to confirm Jeremy’s fears of threatened military reinforcements, although he emphasized they wouldn’t be actual soldiers but only soldier shrinks.
“Soldier shrinks?” said Jeremy.
“Yeah, pals of his who’ve worked with soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan who’d gone bonkers after all the killing out there. What’s that thing they got again?”
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“That’s it. Anyway, these blokes’ job was to shake ’em up good and proper, so they could get their heads straight and get on with the job of shooting the shit out of the bad guys again.”
“Christ. And he’s going to unleash those bastards on me?”
“That’s what he said.”
“And how d’you know this, Bazza?”
“Just doin’ the weeds around the corner, wasn’t I? Not listenin’ in on purpose, like. Only he’s got a loud voice, that boss of yours, ain’t he?”
“Ex-boss. Tell me about it. Foghorns have nothing on Sir Magnus when exercised. A whole army of new shrinks, then?”
“What it sounded like. Another touch of the nettle brandy?”
Jeremy took the proffered bottle and swigged hard. “I don’t fancy meeting up with that bunch,” he said, peering at the empty bottle and shaking it. “Any ideas, Bazza?”
“Well in the circs, if it’s a plan you’re askin’ for, maybe the best thing right now would be for us to get the hell out of Dodge before he comes back with this psycho army of his and shit hits fans.”
“Us? You mean you and me?”
“Yeah.”
“You would be prepared to help me? I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”
Barry shrugged. “No trouble.”
“Sure, sure, sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay. And leave all this behind?” said Jeremy, gesturing out at the estate and the mansion.
“I reckon you’ll have to if you want to avoid the bother. And after all you told me about that ‘chosen’ business of yours, I don’t reckon you’d miss it.”
Jeremy nodded and smiled. Bazza was right. If he were to live up to his newly discovered version of sanity, the logical next step into the future would be precisely to leave the past behind.
“And where would we be going?”
“You’ll see. It’ll be fine.”
“And can Pete come too?”
“Of course he can. Just let’s wait until darkness falls and we shall all take our little trip.”
Five
It was at midnight beneath a gibbous moon, when Sophie, Gloria and Ron were all too pissed to notice or care after a dinner of lamb shank and all the trimmings plus two bottles of Jeremy’s special cellar reserve Ruinart Rosé RV champagne, that Barry, Jeremy and Pete made their clandestine exit from the barn. Barry had his extra size, extra deep, four-wheeler wheelbarrow waiting at the door.
“Just hop in and snuggle down,” he told Jeremy. “And once you’re comfy, I’ll chuck some twigs and branches and stuff on top of you. Nobody will ever suspect. Not that there’ll be anybody out this time of night. All off in the land of nod, as usual.”
“And Pete?” said Jeremy, climbing into the niffy barrow and curling himself into a ball.
“Don’t worry about Pete. He’ll follow me anywhere I tell him. Now you just settle yourself down while I chuck this stuff over you.”
“Okay.”
And so it was, once satisfied with the camouflaging, that Barry hefted the wheelbarrow’s shafts and off they set along the banks of the stream behind the barn, Pete trotting behind, tied to Barry by a long rope. Along the way, Barry sang excerpts from Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are-A-Changin’.”
“Oink, oink,” chorused Pete.
Jeremy would have joined in too had it not been for the need for absolute secrecy. Who knew what rumours might have circulated around the village had any neighbour chanced not to be asleep, stopped for a gossip, and come across a singing wheelbarrow?
Across the little bridge over the stream Barry trundled, taking his usual route. Then it was along the hamlet’s hundred yard main drag, past the only pub, The Wigeon With Wings, past the ruined Norman church and a couple of cottages, until he reached open fields and, leading through them, the wild-hedged, leafy path that ended at the copse of sycamores in which nestled his white Shepherd’s Hut mobile home, which was only marginally larger than Jeremy’s barn, although it had an upstairs too. There he laid down the wheelbarrow’s shafts, tied Pete to a handrail of the three-step staircase leading up to the porch, and told the fugitive he could come out. The whole trip had taken no more than half an hour.
But there was no response from Jeremy, no sign of movement in the wheelbarrow, nothing.
“Jezza?” he called, delving into the canopy of leaves, branches, and other detritus. God help him if the bloke had suffered a heart attack or something.
But no, once Barry found a foot and waggled it, Jeremy gurgled a bit, sat bolt upright, and took to peering about.
“Bloody hell, must’ve nodded off,” he said, swiping twigs from his hair. “Brilliant ride, Bazza. Really enjoyed it. Like all the weight of the world had been lifted. Wow, is that your house?”
“Such as it is. But you’ll be safe here. Nobody ever comes without an invitation. Which I rarely extend. And the postman leaves any letters in a hollow oak down the end of the path we just came up. Otherwise it’s just me. Oh, and Shirley.”
“Your partner...or whatever?”
Barry grinned and pointed at the two forepaws drumming on his front window and the shaggy head with pricked-up ears between them.
“You mig
ht think of it that way. My best friend, that’s for sure. Only she’s a Labrador/Afghan Hound cross. Hi there, Shirl,” he said, waving. “Be with you in a minute.”
“Raaf, raaf, RAAAFFFF,” said Shirl. Muffledly.
Jeremy climbed out of his wheelbarrow and waved too.
“D’you reckon she’ll get along with Pete?” he said, patting the pig on his pink head.
“’Course she will. Knows Pete already from the couple of times I took her over to your place with me when you and the missus were off in Barbados or wherever. Best of pals, these two, aren’t you, Pete?”
“Oink, oink, OINK,” said Pete, his two front trotters already on the staircase and his curly tail twitching.
“Look, why don’t we all go inside and get settled in?” said Barry. “It’s late, but a drop or two of my nettle brandy, or the burdock version if you’d prefer, would do us no harm. Plus maybe a slice or two of pizza? What d’you reckon?”
Jeremy reckoned that was a very good plan. And so it was that he and Pete took their first steps into a new life.
Shirley was delighted, planting both paws on Jeremy’s shoulders—on hind legs she was as tall as him—and slurping at his nose and chin, before saying hi to Pete, who rolled over on his back and kicked his four trotters in the air.
“So, here’s to us all,” said Barry, after dispensing the burdock brandy Jeremy had opted for as a change. “Let only good things come of this.”
“Hear, hear to that. And thanks so much for all your help,” said Jeremy.
“De rien. Je t’en prie,” said Barry raising his glass. “À ta bonne santé.”
The French surprised Jeremy. But that was only the first of the surprises Barry had in store.
~ * ~
It was two days later when Sir Magnus Montague returned to Jeremy’s ex-house and pulled the rope that operated the wind-chime bell. Gloria and Ron had returned to their own place, so a fidgety Sophie was home alone, dusting things that didn’t need dusting because Nina, her eager-to-please Bulgarian “housekeeper,” did all that. And the vacuuming, and the bathroom scrubbing, and the kitchen parquet floor swabbing, and indoor window cleaning, and the floor-to-ceiling mirrors polishing. And anything else Sophie instructed her to do while the mistress of the house sashayed off to relax in the jacuzzi. But this was Nina’s day off, so, with nobody to boss about and her breadwinner having relocated to the barn, Sophie was at a loose end and twitchy.
Chosen Page 3
