The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  Moments after this the children ran off. He saw their vanishing backs, as they scrambled away, panicking on their bony little legs.

  8

  Pitt found his way back to the main road. He was afraid of having killed that guy, he couldn’t explain the horrible attack, but was happy to escape with his own life. The bloody, ruined image stayed with him, even on this terrible and strange day. He was in trauma. Had this been a consequence of mistaken identity? Had he looked at that guy in the wrong way? Managed to antagonise a psychopath with a friendly wave? Or was he part of the conspiracy to ‘exterminate’ him, as Pixie Wright, that brilliant girl from the office, had openly warned him?

  Clive scrutinised a yellowing bus timetable and sat to wait. In terms of public transport this was not exactly Piccadilly Circus. But it was too far to Douglas Breadham’s place to consider walking - at least not without a proper pair of boots and maybe hiking gear. So he attempted to regain his balance and take stock. In some ways it was best to keep moving, to prevent negative ideas forming, to stop shock from setting in.

  He was forced to sit waiting in the bus shelter for over two hours. Only an occasional car ripped past, including a crowd of teenagers who offered him the finger for daring to raise his thumb.

  The late sun pulsed down as if worshipping itself, with no feeling of nurture. At least he was slightly sheltered from the evening heat. But the sunshine had saved him earlier, when that psycho had been blinded, and so he gave thanks to the sun, with pagan intensity. What chance was there of passing that lost year with no greater crime? He had merely been defending himself against violence: That was the sort of misdeed that could be forgiven and forgotten. Douglas would keep an open mind about these bleak adventures.

  His thirst raged and he was soaked with sweat, which chilled him in spite of the temperature. He gazed across a roll of coconut matting textured fields beyond. The tree canopy was singed and wilting, afflicted by general die back, even at the height of summer. He felt as if all the sap of life had gone. He enjoyed fishing, but probably the rivers were down and invaded by poisonous spumes. What was the chance of following any of those outdoor sports now, which Noreen had originally interested him in, when the natural world was apparently under severe stress?

  At last he caught sight of an approaching bus - a chugging charabanc - as nobody around here used public transport. Clive raised his arm as a signal to the driver, then felt bolts of pain and ripped nerves, branching along his arms and shoulders.

  His supply of small change was running down. Fortunately he had enough and hadn’t spilled everything in the dust, while playing gladiators with that mysterious thug. The bus was near empty at this stage, getting to the end of its route, yet serving every little settlement. He sat quietly, controlling a trembling hand, trying not to be disturbed. He waited until the bus finally lurched to a standstill, at the nearest stop to his friend’s place, the “green” of Ashsilt village, outside the local pub and shop. It should have been a rapid walk the rest of the way; perhaps about five minutes by car. In the circumstances the walk across a country mile would take him longer. There was no alternative.

  Pitt continued along tracks, over stiles, down lanes, taking short cuts where possible. The sun was forging to impressive metallic hues. He came into sight of the high iron gates to Breadham’s country mansion. The juicy rewards of Temple Bar hadn’t been completely drained away, he considered, viewing this mouth watering estate. Clive assumed that his friend should be at home by this hour. Doug’s huge car collection was parked over a wide tarmac driveway. Soon he would need to return his valuable vehicles to their garage (something more like a hangar) for security. Pitt also kept his eyes open for larger German dog breeds, which were another hobby of Douglas’. A group of would-be intruders had given those canines a scent of human blood, a few years back. It had already been a rocky day for him, without adding extra sport. But he couldn’t remember when he’d last visited this place, or exactly why he was drawn.

  Douglas’ place was a converted seventeenth century mansion, donated by one of his trusted advisors. The house rambled over extensive grounds, fallen handsomely into its joints and foundations. Doug had bought the house at auction, after the last financial crash, when the original dot coms were popping and bursting like champagne bubbles.

  The house had been built as a hunting lodge, designed for those sophisticated aristocrats with a taste for animal blood. After the revolutionary wars it had been extended again, made into a family residence, by a banking family.

  Clive was hoping to finally access his messages, jump back on the information train, so to renew contact with the outside world. Doug might be able to illuminate him about all recent events. Pitt was hopeful that the barrister wouldn’t be influenced by negative stories about him. Douglas would require a proper brief, unrelated to outright character assassination.

  Fortunately those high front gates were open at this stage of the evening. There were security systems in place. There was no option but to cautiously approach, despite the risks. Clive got as far as the front door and put his thumb into the chime. He could hear dogs yapping and snarling somewhere at the rear of the estate. There was a whole kennel complex, a paradise for highly bred psychotic mutts. A long wait was enforced without reply to his summons. However after a long pause, a near aristocratic delay, he picked up an opening procedure, with the sound of bolts, catches and chains being released.

  Clive found himself scrutinised. This time he faced a grudging pair of male eyes. The entire world was gazing at him from around the edge of a door, it seemed. He knew these eyes to belong to Doug’s butler, or manservant (or whatever his exact job title). This guy’s responsibilities for house and garden went much further than the original job description, handed to him by the agency, several years before. Pitt always found the concept of a man servant hard to accept, even though it had been adopted abroad, and was not outdated in some City circles. But whatever the morality of keeping servants in the twenty first century, this guy’s silk Italian suits did a lot of talking.

  “Hi, Reg.”

  “Mr Pitt?” Distaste was brilliantly stifled.

  “I realise it looks strange... to turn up like this. Sorry to impose myself on you, without an invite. I was caught out in town and don’t have anywhere else to go,” he explained, helplessly. “Look at the state of me, mate.”

  Even Reg was shocked by his appearance. “Have you been in some kind of scrape, Mr Pitt?”

  “Definitely. It’s all been a terrible accident. But I can’t explain everything that’s happened to me. I need some help from your employer.”

  “Do you. Has it really? You don’t seem a hundred per cent.”

  “Mr Breadham will be able to advise me, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “You do look in a state,” he considered. “You don’t look your complete self, Mr Pitt,” Reg decided. He continued to retain that chink, through which to scrutinise an untimely and unsavoury caller.

  “Tell Douglas that I’m here, will you? If he has heard anything about me, then I would like to get the inside track. Do you understand? Maybe he can tell me what’s been going on in my life.”

  The butler’s guard was dropping and a little more of him was showing. Nevertheless he imparted the following information with relief:

  “You didn’t choose a convenient time. Mr Breadham is not at home,” he stated.

  Reg was about to push the door back, but Clive physically insisted that he didn’t, with the use of his foot; a distressingly scuffed Church’s shoe.

  “What’s the reason for a frosty welcome?” he said. “Why your sudden formality? Been keeping your ears open lately, Reg?”

  “Mr Breadham is in town this evening, sir. He’s on lady business.”

  There was contact between their fingers on the door edge.

  “Is that the case? Is he, now? When do you expect
him back home?”

  “Why, in the morning, as usual,” Reg said, very professionally disguising clenched teeth and straining muscles. “When might you expect him?”

  “Then I can stay over for the night... this night. If it isn’t too much trouble,” Clive suggested.

  “Not without Mr Breadham’s prior permission, you can’t,” Reg insisted.

  “You’re going to turn me away? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you recognise me? I was a regular visitor and mate of Mr Breadham’s,” Clive reminded him.

  But judging by Reg’s reaction, the relationship had changed. No longer could he present a careless air of good humoured confidence. He could only guess at a wild and filthy appearance, showing the trapped anxiety of an insect in treacly amber.

  “It wouldn’t be proper, would it... to invite you for the night,” Reg explained.

  “The house must be empty,” Clive replied.

  “We haven’t prepared a guest room.”

  “How so? Doug’s away in Chelsea, isn’t he, entertaining one of his nerveless girlfriends? Sorry to be so frank about this, but...”

  “I’m not employed to make any judgements about my employer, Mr Pitt, and it’s not obvious that they would be negative anyway,” Reg said.

  “Why don’t you try to contact Mr Breadham?” Clive said. “Tell him about my predicament tonight. On my behalf. That’s a fair suggestion, mate.”

  Reg found this idea amusing. “Mr Breadham can’t be disturbed in the evening after a long day in court.”

  “Straight up? At least he’s got a roof over his head. I’ve discovered that I don’t have my own home and that my family has gone to the USA. I don’t mean Disney Land either!”

  “I can see you are in a distressed condition, Mr Pitt. We are most sympathetic, but unable to help,” Reg told him.

  “You are prepared to turn me away Reg? I don’t have anywhere to go this evening.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but we’re not a hotel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am only following my employer’s instructions, in regards to unsolicited enquiries.”

  “Doug’s going to have your guts for this,” Clive warned, “and be warned, you can trade in your little Ferrari right now.”

  “Come back in the morning, sir. Maybe Mr Breadham will see you then,” he suggested, “whatever you have to say for yourself.”

  “It would seem you’re pretty stubborn about this, Reg. All right, don’t press your panic button, leave it alone... I’m going away now. Just promise me that you’ll not call the police, or raise the alarm in any way. Give me a chance, will you?”

  “All right Mr Pitt, if you leave the property, I shan’t press the hot line or let the dogs on to you,” he agreed.

  “You’re surpassing yourself aren’t you Reg, in the old charm school,” Clive commented.

  “Good evening Mr Pitt.”

  At which he secured a substantial oak door (which contained fragments of musket shot), and went through security procedure in reverse. Clive had noticed that smile of contempt or pity playing around Reg’s conceited lips.

  Clive stood about the front facade, calculating his options, considering a next move. He thought about staying on the property, to explore the grounds and other ways of entering. But Clive knew this would draw attention to himself, as Reg would carry out his threats, with his finger on that hot line to the local police station. Breadham had contacts with the rural fuzz, to safeguard expensive paintings and other expensive objects that might be exchanged for a Caribbean island. Therefore Clive had no option but to return down the drive, back out into the fields beyond, with the thought of trying his luck in the morning.

  He tried not to think about that mansion with its numerous vacant guest rooms. But he gave a kick of frustration to the gate post on his way out. He really considered breaking in. Normally the trained hounds would be friendly to him - after being introduced and knowing his scent - but not if he attempted to shin uninvited up Doug’s Restoration beams. There was a sun house at the rear, a type of folly, but this also had a security system.

  The sky grew black and heavy, and in a few minutes a violent rain storm began. Within moments he was drenched through, hair plastered down his face, although the rain was warm. There was no bus back to town at this time, and it would be pointless to try to go back to London. Ironically he knew there was still a company credit card in this wallet; no reason to think it wouldn’t be accepted by a hotel. The problem was that he didn’t know of a hotel in this area. He was warned about credit details allowing his enemies (or whoever they were) to locate him. So far they only knew that he’d taken a drink at The Banker and Flower Girl. He couldn’t take any more risks until he was briefed. He preferred to stay in the vicinity of Ashsilt village, waiting for his friend’s return next morning.

  By nature Clive was up to a challenge. It might have been exciting to sleep rough in other circumstances. The last time he’d slept under the stars had been in New Zealand - a year ago, or was it two? That was with the advantages of having the right equipment, keeping in contact with the outside world, with proper food and clothing. Here he was virtually in rags and beginning to freeze in pelting rain, as the temperature fell with the sun. Violent rainfall swirled about the distant Chiltern Hills. This was not comfortable. With job gone, home gone, family emigrated, he allowed himself a moderate measure of bitterness.

  On a regular Friday evening Noreen and he would have a round of golf or go for a run. If they could get a babysitter they would go and catch a movie. This was all out of the window now and Clive was stricken. He trekked over the burnt out fields, which yet had sudden pools of flood water in the middle; the English terrain resembling some different country, or even planet. A throbbing purple sun re-emerged out of black funnel clouds: it sliced the atmosphere open like a hot saw as it slowly sank. Suddenly life was unnerving and difficult to recognise or to manage. You could hardly feel comfortable with the air you breathed, or tried to breathe. Clive was shocked to stumble over dead animals and birds, littering the caked earth.

  Before nightfall (the twilight was long and allowed time to explore) he managed to find a place to sleep - inside a barn, on a rickety loft. He tried to sleep in meagre straw, beneath a patchy roof. As a result he endured the small hours shivering, with the stars glittering icily and a chill mist gathering. Equally he didn’t know who could be about, searching around, trying to kill him, as the girl from the office had warned.

  9

  At dawn Clive struggled to his feet, rubbing his face, blinking in astonishment as the lineaments of his predicament returned. His head was splitting, muscles tight, body aching and tender. He stumbled back down a hay loft ladder and, returning over the rutted desolate fields, posted himself at the gates of Breadham’s mansion. Soon he noticed Reg spying on him from an upstairs window, sticking his nose around a drape. Fortunately there hadn’t been police sirens during the night. Clive was allowed to wait for his friend’s return unmolested, hungry, exhausted, and trembling; in a woeful physical condition: like a whipped dog indeed.

  Douglas was unlikely to return at the crack of dawn. Breadham would have spent the night at his Chelsea apartment, overlooking exclusive water, not far from the old Stamford Bridge (where he had an executive box), as well as a stake in the hotel. Didn’t Clive have a shaky memory of accompanying him to a match once?

  No doubt the lawyer would be enjoying breakfast with the fortunate lady concerned (depending on your point of view). However it was now the weekend and so he would return to Gatemead, to tend to local business and pleasure. No, Doug didn’t like socialising with his easy conquests; he wouldn’t hang around in town too long on a Saturday.

  The dawn chorus fizzled as morning heat gathered. Giant storm puddles had evaporated, leaving a misty veil around tree tops and hills, which gradually burnt away. Suffoc
ating humidity was beginning to build. It was after eleven that Pitt, slumped on the floor without shade, finally heard an approaching car. He noticed a following cloud of dust forming and dispersing. It sounded like one of Breadham’s cars, as there was a kind of sophisticated snarl; a whine of slick revs. This was the kind of car that was constructed by guys in white suits in a dust free environment.

  Shortly afterwards a high performance yellow Morgan came snarling around the corner, emitting subsonic sound frequencies like the roar of a lion. Pitt had a glimpse of his friend’s very contented expression behind the windscreen, fully enjoying himself, shifting gears with the sensation of control, equal to any Persian king on a chariot. Then there was an unmistakable expression of amazement, or disgust, when Doug caught sight of Clive, or of some ragged man: as he noticed a large bedraggled figure, stood about at the gates, in a miserable and impoverished condition.

  Doug didn’t recognise Pitt at first. He was just shocked by this probable vagrant, some interloper peering between the bars. Yet Breadham kept both himself and the machine under tight control; pulled up smoothly, before exiting warily to investigate. He was used to dealing with violent criminals or gangsters, or simply devious crooks, but ordinarily guards or police stood by to prevent contact. There was genuine concern as well as shock as he fully recognised his associate, Clive Pitt, beyond the pale and wasted. Breadham calculated quickly as he came around the beautiful car, caressing its wing, how to deal with this potential threat.