Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  Kev pulled him up to his chest. ‘Liddell nark, ain’t yer?’

  ‘No, I’m not, honest!’ Oh. heavens, has Bob gone and spilt the beans? How to get out of this one?

  ‘Yer grassed us up didn’t yer?’

  ‘No I didn’t!’

  ‘Yer did an’ all!’

  Vicious punch in the face. Blinding flash of light. Pain. Salty taste of blood as it pours out of his nose.

  ‘Oyer!’

  A token attempt at resistance was impossible as both his arms were firmly pinioned. God, what are they going to do to me now?

  ‘Yorra rich git ain’t yer?’

  ‘No, I’m not!’

  A hefty punch in the ribs made him gasp. Remember Bob’s instructions about being robbed. Resistance pointless. Give them what they want. ‘You can always get a new camera on the insurance, but you won’t be able to get a new stomach or liver that easily.’

  ‘All right, what do you want?’

  ‘Nikka! That’s what! We needs it like!’

  ‘OK. Let me get it out!’ At least they’re not going to take my pants off; the shame of that in front of Jim and Tracy!

  They released him and he unbuttoned his shirt and, unzipping his money belt, handed over his remaining dihrams.

  ‘Is that all? Howay, yerv got more!’

  ‘No, I haven’t, honest!’

  ‘Liar!’

  Another punch in the ribs sent him sprawling onto the floor. Fighting back tears, he was hauled to his feet. Hairy paws ripped open his shirt and pulled off his money belt.

  ‘What’s them things then?’

  ‘They’re travellers’ cheques. They’re no use to you!’

  ‘Crap!’

  Another punch in the face. Another blinding flash of light.

  ‘Oyer!’

  ‘We’ll ’ave ’em anyway!’

  Kev returned the money belt. ‘An’ we wants a bit off your mate Steadman. Gerrus twenny quid. Tomorra mornin’ sharp, mind, else yer’s gerrin it!’

  A final punch in the ribs sent him sprawling on the floor for the second time.

  Picking himself up, he scuttled off down the stairs. Looking into his money belt, he found his passport was still there. At least they hadn’t taken that. That, at any rate, was something. But, oh God, how pathetic he’d been! Trembling and snivelling when he should have lashed out at them! If it had been at Beaconsfield he would have done, but this was different. These were wild animals – Greenhill again. But, oh, the shame of it all! And in front of Jim and Tracy too. He had to make a big effort to stop the tears trickling.

  ‘It Should be Interesting’

  He crept back into the bedroom.

  Steadman was there. ‘What’s up with you? You’ve been through the wars, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ How could he explain this away? It was all so degrading! Beaten up in a fight! As bad as shitting yourself.

  ‘Oh come on! Your nose is bleeding, your shirt’s ripped and you’ve got a corker of a black eye. Don’t tell me you just walked into a door. You’ve run into Kev and his mates, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And they’ve mugged you, haven’t they?’

  ‘In a way… yes.’

  ‘I knew they would,’ said Michael.

  ‘I’m afraid that was inevitable, sooner or later,’ added Steadman with a sigh. ‘Did they take your money?’

  John was silent for a moment. Eventually he forced himself to tell some of the truth. It was like squeezing hardened toothpaste out of an old tube.

  ‘Yes, they took all my money and all my traveller’s cheques too. But I put up quite a fight and managed to keep my passport. But there were six or seven of them… and I couldn’t do much.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start trying to apologise. It wasn’t exactly your fault, was it? But we can’t let them get away with this. It’ll be Michael next, and then maybe Jim.’

  ‘They said I’d grassed on them. Did you tell Dobson about the drugs?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me. It was Jim, but they don’t know that. They think it was you, and Jim was too scared to say it was him.’

  ‘Well, what’s Dobson going to do about it?’

  ‘If he’s any sense, he’ll tell the poliss and they’ll pack ’em all off ter the nick,’ said Michael vehemently. ‘Them’s nowt but trouble, them lot!’

  ‘I don’t know what he’ll do,’ said Steadman. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. It should be interesting.’

  A Drug Dealer? Consequences

  A little later, but not quite on cue, Dobson appeared outside the room, looking like thunder.

  ‘Mr Steadman, a word, please.’

  Steadman went outside to meet him while John and Michael stationed themselves by the door and listened to the ensuing dialogue.

  ‘I’ll come right to the point,’ said Dobson. ‘I’m taking your two extras down to the nearest police station and I want you to accompany me and act as interpreter.’

  ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘You obviously haven’t been noticing things. But I’ve been reliably informed that when they went into the town last night, they bought drugs and then tried to sell them to my people.’

  ‘Who on earth told you that?’

  ‘Kevin Bartlett.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Why not? He’s a good lad.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. Drug pusher. Two convictions for robbery with violence. Hardly a squeaky clean innocent.’

  ‘We’ve been through this before. He’s a deprived kid. He has to do a bit of robbery to get the cash for his everyday needs. Anyway, it’s not robbery. It’s only recovering what society’s taken from him. Not like your two that’s just after money.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but —’

  ‘No buts. Let’s see what your little friends have to say for themselves, shall we?’

  ‘John, Michael. Can you come here a minute?’

  John who’d heard every word of the dialogue had become two people: one, the Greenhill version, wanting to shrivel up and hide under the blankets in sheer despair at the craziness of things: the other an incandescent bundle of fury, ready to charge, Kamikaze-style, at the enemy, regardless of the consequences. When he emerged from the shadows with Michael, he was visibly trembling.

  ‘Right, you two,’ said Dobson, putting on his ‘official expedition leader’ voice. ‘You’re coming down to the police station with me.’

  John screwed up his faltering courage. ‘Why?’ Curled lip, adolescent defiance.

  ‘You know perfectly well why.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘All right then, I’ll remind you. Last night you went into the town and used your privileged education and superior wealth to buy drugs, which you then tried to sell to my people.’

  Flabbergasted stare. Blind fury. Tears trickling.

  ‘Crap! Get Tracy and Jim. They were with us. They’ll tell the truth.’

  ‘They already have.’

  ‘Can’t have done. Michael, you tell him.’

  Michael turned away. ‘John, yer canna dee owt, son. He’s got it all sewn up like.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t be a wimp now!’ John turned on Dobson in a blaze of temper. ‘I never bought fucking drugs! You know it! It was those hippies that Kev was with.’

  ‘Oh, it’s hippies now, is it? Think that one will wash, do you?’

  ‘But they were there! I saw them! They were all smoking dope. Sandra was being screwed in the corner.’

  ‘Don’t try to lie your way out of it.’

  Steadman intervened. ‘That is true, Brian. I saw them at it.’

  ‘Can’t have done, because it never happened.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

>   ‘Yes he is!’ shrieked John. ‘Because that’s what you are! You’re a cunt!’

  ‘John, that won’t do you any good,’ said Steadman trying to restrain him.

  ‘Nobody calls me a cunt,’ said Dobson slowly and deliberately.

  With that, he stepped forward and punched him hard in the ribs. He was big, muscular, powerfully built and far stronger than John who, for the third time that evening, crumpled up.

  ‘Just remember, sunshine, that I’m a boxer,’ he declared triumphantly.

  ‘That’s assault!’ said Steadman, as he lifted the panting bundle off the floor. ‘And in front of two witnesses, as well.’

  ‘Law’s different here. I can get away with it. That I do know.’

  ‘Look, if the adults can’t sort things out without violence, how do you expect the kids to?’

  ‘There’s nothing to sort out. We’re taking these two down to the police station now.’

  Despite his most valiant efforts, John slid into helpless child mode. Tears came. ‘Why? Why? Me? I’ve done nothing wrong. Mad! Mad!’

  Michael, who had fewer illusions about human goodness and expected far less out of life, remained calm. Resigned.

  ‘Come on, John,’ said Steadman, grabbing John’s shoulder, ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I’ll stand by you.’

  How he was relishing the situation! The youth totally dependent on him, wide open to… well, just what? Also, it was a glorious chance to parade his underused linguistic and anthropological skills, a chance to demolish that pretentious buffoon, Dobson. The adrenaline was pumping. This was war!

  They filed their way through the exotic anarchy of the Jemaa el-Fnaa and eventually ended up outside a modern two-storey building in the newer part of the town. Uniformed men ushered them into a small office where a dapper little man, all gold braid, gold shoulder pips and medals, sat behind a large desk. A picture of the King of Morocco occupied the wall behind him.

  Immediately Dobson went onto the attack. ‘I’ve brought two young men who have been dealing in drugs.’

  The man behind the desk looked blank.

  Dobson repeated the sentence in a louder voice. ‘I’ve brought two young men who have been dealing in drugs!’

  A blank look was followed by an offended scowl.

  ‘He doesn’t understand English,’ said Steadman. ‘I think I’d better handle this one.’

  As he launched into fluent Arabic, the man seemed to visibly melt. The hard-lined military face broke into a broad grin. He stood up and rang a bell on the desk. Chairs were brought in for everybody – including the two supposed miscreants – to sit on, glasses of steaming tea were handed round. Steadman continued his speech, and eventually the man stood up and shook everybody’s hands.

  ‘Well, that’s settled,’ declared Steadman. ‘John and Michael, you can sleep easily tonight. You’re in the clear.’

  John’s sullen and grubby face dissolved into a dazzling smile. ‘Thanks Bob! Thanks!’

  In a rush of emotion he embraced him. With more restraint, Michael followed suit.

  But Dobson wasn’t convinced. ‘What the hell have you been telling him?’ he growled.

  ‘Simply the truth, old man. These two had nothing whatever to do with drugs. It was those hippies who got them.’

  ‘You mean you just soft-soaped him to get your two off the hook. I might have known it! Well, this’ll have to go higher up. We’ll have to go to the British Embassy to get justice, then. Obviously I can’t rely on you. Anyway, what about that cafe they visited last night? That’s where Jim says they got the stuff.’

  ‘All right, we’ll check it out, if that’s what you want. We’ll bring a policeman along to help us. John, can you describe the cafe you visited last night?’

  John did so.

  More Arabic conversation from Steadman. A young policeman arrived. Together they left. The policeman obviously knew the way and they soon reached the cafe.

  ‘Yes, this is it,’ said John.

  As they parted the beaded curtain and entered the little den, they were overwhelmed by an effusive welcome. John and Michael were embraced and kissed by the grave old man in the white robe. Tea was brought. A vigorous Arabic conversation began between him, Steadman and the policeman. Hands were shaken. Kebabs were brought.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ growled Dobson.

  Deftly switching languages, Steadman explained. ‘This man angrily denies selling drugs to these two. He praises them for their good manners and adult attitude towards the local culture.’

  ‘Huh! Well he would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe, but he says he knows about a group of hippies who were using drugs and who were staying at our place. This policeman happens to be the brother of the owner, so you’d better be careful. If it came to a court action here, it would be a Moroccan word against a British word, and I hardly need tell you who would be believed.’

  ‘Well, it looks if you’ve got it all nicely sewn up, doesn’t it? This’ll have to go further. A lot further.’

  They left and walked in silence through the darkened alleys.

  Eventually Steadman broke the silence. ‘Look, Brian, we really can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘I mean, we’ve got an expedition to run. Don’t get me wrong, old man, I fully support you’re aim to get your down-and-outs to achieve big things. I admire you for trying to do it. But they’ve landed you in a spot of serious bother. We must pull together to sort it out. Ignoring obvious facts and trying to blame my two won’t solve anything. It’ll just make matters worse. And I hardly need tell you that if we don’t get somebody up a mountain and into the desert we’re going to look pretty bloody silly when we get home. The papers will have a field day for starters.’

  Silence.

  ‘The expedition will continue,’ declared Dobson eventually. ‘But without your two. They’ve done quite enough damage already.’

  ‘In that case,’ replied a weary Steadman. ‘It goes ahead without me. You do things your way. I’ll do things my way.’

  ‘As you wish, but there will be consequences when we get back home. That’s insubordination. The committee won’t take kindly to that.’

  ‘Yes, there will be consequences, all right,’ replied Steadman grimly. Then in desperation he made one final plea. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Brian! We can’t go on living on this level! It’s so childish!’

  There was no reply. Not even a ‘Huh!’ No attempt at conciliation. Not the slightest hint. The truth had to be faced: Dobson was an incorrigible idiot and he’d just have to cut his losses and face the consequences whatever they were.

  ‘John, Michael,’ he said, calling them over to him. ‘We’re on our own now. Tomorrow we’ll go for Toubkal without the others.’

  The Tale of a Messiah – of Sorts

  Back in their bedroom, John was too hyped up to sleep. ‘Why is Dobson going on like this?’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s mad! Off his trolley!’

  ‘No,’ replied Steadman with a voice of sad resignation, ‘He’s not mad. He’s just desperate.’

  ‘He doesn’t look it.’

  ‘You see, his whole world’s coming unstuck and you, my man, are part of the unsticking.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Steadman lay back on his bed and stretched out.

  ‘Let me tell you a little story – but don’t ever say that I told it to you. Once upon a time there was a little boy called Brian. He grew up in a bleak mining village called Chopwell. His father was a coal miner. A hard life had made him a bitter and driven man and he had become a communist. He was determined to change the world for the better. Class war was everything.

  ‘His little boy, Brian, was all he could have wished for. Big, strong and a good boxer – which, as you must know, goes down well in Geordieland – he was , also, c
lever. He was the pride of the village. He would assert the rights of the working class. He would expose the pretentious vapidity of the middle class exploiters. “Be the best, son,” his father would say to him. “Don’t let the middle classes do you down. You’re far better than any of them!” If he had been a Christian – which he wasn’t! – he would have claimed he was some kind of Messiah.

  ‘But when he passed his Eleven Plus and went to the local grammar school, he found that the middle-class kids were just as clever as he was – sometimes cleverer – and just as good at football and boxing. That hurt. He and his father rationalised this. Class prejudice. Not any lack of ability on his part. He passed his A Levels all right, but not, alas, well enough to get to university. He had to make do with a teacher training college instead. Class prejudice again.

  ‘He was a brilliant teacher. Kids feared him; he was handy with his fists, as you have doubtless noticed! But he won their respect. He began to see himself as a sort of Messiah, destined to fulfil his father’s hopes and lead the working class onwards and upwards and get rid of all those middle-class snobs who were holding them down.

  ‘He became head of maths at Morton Hill Community College. But he wants more. He wants to be a headmaster, but without a degree, that avenue is blocked. He could, of course, do a degree with the Open University, but he doesn’t see why he should. That would be giving in to class prejudice.

  ‘Youth expeditions, however, have provided an alternative. The local politicians like his pedigree and he has wangled himself into a strategic position. He can make or break his subordinates, and doesn’t poor little Morris just know it! But he can’t touch me. I’ve got Don Mackay behind me. I’m immune. But the problem is that he hasn’t actually done any expeditioning before. He has the form, but not the substance, and it’s been noticed in influential quarters.

  ‘Hence this expedition. He’s out to prove to the world that he’s a groundbreaking youth expedition leader who can do what nobody else can do. He wants to show County Hall that he can handle inner-city desperadoes and get them to achieve big things in ways that nobody else can. Think of it, Jonny boy, what a feather in his cap! Hence the presence of Kev and his merry men.’

  ‘But, oh dear, in his pride he’s gone and bitten off more than he can chew! He can’t handle “abroad”, let alone Morocco. Worse still, Kev and his gang have taken him for a colossal ride. They’ve no intention of climbing Toubkal or going into the desert. They’re here to get drugs for their minders back home, and poor old Brian can’t do a thing about it! Right now his worst fears are being realised and, as you would put it, he’s shitting bricks.’