The Anagram

by Russell French

  “That’s not much. Have you got some money on you, you know, for refreshments and stuff?”

  “I’ve got a couple of quid. That’s all they could spare.”

  “Mmm, that’s not a lot either.” Gareth reached for his wallet. “Here. Here’s a tenner. Get yourself some sweets and a bottle of Coke, and something to read on the journey. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Gary. I couldn’t possibly take…”

  “Course you could. Go on, take it and enjoy your trip. I take it someone’s meeting you the other end?”

  “Yes, my Granddad will be there. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything. Go on, off you go. You’ve just got time to nip into Smiths and then get your seat.”

  “Take care crossing the road in front of Chester station—it’s a nightmare!” Beth added kindly.

  The boy shouldered his large load again. “Thanks. Thanks again. Bye!”

  Gary waved as he trotted off, still bent almost double by his backpack.

  “That was a kind thing to do.”

  “Well, he was completely lost, poor lad. I was in that situation once. It was horrible. I hope everything turns out ok for him.”

  They had booked into a large modern hotel just off the Tottenham Court Road, handily placed for the Tube. They took a taxi, it being cheaper and more convenient than travelling on the Underground. The hotel was a rather soulless place but efficiently-run and the staff were eager to please. It also had a good reputation for breakfasts!

  They made their way to their room on the third floor. Once they’d stowed their luggage and settled in, they immediately turned their thoughts to the matter that was preoccupying their minds.

  “It doesn’t have to be THEETH,” said Beth. “It could be two “THE’s.”

  “Ok. Let’s try that.”

  Beth wrote: MHOSW THE THE PAINTING “How about THEM?” she suggested.

  “WHOS THE THEM PAINTING. Doesn’t look too promising.”

  “Wait a minute!” Beth almost shouted. “Look! It’s not WHOS, it’s SHOW! SHOW THEM THE PAINTING!”

  “By God, you’re right! The question, is what painting?”

  Their eyes met and then turned to Gareth’s walking-stick, lying on the floor.

  “You don’t think… ? I knew there was a reason why I bought that wretched thing!”

  “Why did you choose that one in the first place anyway, Beth?”

  “I don’t know. Something just drew me to it. It seemed to stand out from the others, for some reason. I told you it would be £20 well spent!”

  “Looks as though you might well have been right!” The pair of them could hardly contain their excitement. Not for the first time, they felt they were being guided by a higher force.

  “Let’s have a look at it.” Gareth reached for the stick, unscrewed the top and drew out the rolled-up paper inside. They laid it out on the bed and began scrutinising it eagerly. On closer inspection, the three dominant blobs just looked as though they might be representations of people.

  “Father, mother and child, do you think?” Beth wondered. “Could well be.”

  “Yes, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there, Beth. Look, there’s something scrawled at the bottom.” They had not noticed this on their first, admittedly cursory, glance. “Can’t for the life of me work out what it says, mind.”

  The peered ever more intently at the scribble at the bottom of the drawing: proudparents

  “I can’t quite make it out,” said Gareth irritably. “Looks like a P at the beginning, but after that… Tell you what. There’s a WH Smith in Oxford Street. I’ll nip out and get a magnifying-glass. Won’t be long.”

  He was as good as his word. In no time at all, he was back, proudly clutching the required piece of equipment. They applied it immediately to the puzzling script. Now it read:

  Proudparents

  “PP. Proud Parents. That’s it! That’s what we need,” Gareth shouted in delight. “Remember Arthur telling us he’d seen Pierre Poivre in that horrid hovel of a studio with a woman and child? Gilbert must have painted them!”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t make sense. There’s no way PP would have sat for a family portrait, knowing what his weakness was. And even if he did, why didn’t he take it with him, or better still, destroy it?”

  “I bet old Dark did it surreptitiously.” Gareth teased his idea out slowly as he spoke. “PP probably refused to let him do it, for reasons he wouldn’t have explained to Gilbert, obviously. More than likely the crafty little bugger threw this together on the sly. Of course, he wouldn’t realise the significance of what he’d done and just added it to the rest of his rubbish in the vain hope that one day some clown would come along and buy it. Eventually, we showed up.”

  “So the Dark Lady was a clue after all. There’s no way we’d have gone in there if it hadn’t been for his name writ large above the door. Do you ever get the feeling someone or something is leading us by the nose?”

  “Something’s definitely going on. Spooky, isn’t it? But it looks as though we’ve finally got something to confront the arch-enemy with.” Gareth grinned triumphantly.

  “Yes. I can’t wait to tell Theeth.”

  “You’ll have to wait. Nobody must know of this, or we’ll be in trouble. I wonder if that’s what Pat and Eth and their pals were looking for when they attacked us? Good job we had it well hidden. No wonder they didn’t find it!”

  “PP can’t know of its existence, surely, or he would have had it destroyed long ago. Perhaps he acted on a hunch—just in case.” It was Beth’s turn to apply logic to the matter.

  “Yes, well, he’s none the wiser. This definitely gives us the edge. I feel a lot more confident, all of a sudden.” Gareth breathed a sigh of relief as he got up and stretched his long legs.

  “Don’t get carried away. Let’s just sit on it for now, like you said. I’m hungry. Let’s go for something to eat, and maybe a spot of shopping in Oxford Street?”

  “What? Shopping? Oh, all right, why not? I keep forgetting you don’t actually live in London. Yes, I’m starving, now you come to mention it. Let’s go out.”

  They grabbed their coats and made their way out into the cold city air, feeling more jaunty than they had done for a while.

  28

  “Didn’t find anything, Boss,” Patterson was forced to admit to Pierre, as they re-convened in their grubby headquarters. “Gave them a good going-over, though. Would have done an even better job if some old fogey hadn’t appeared with his dogs. What were you looking for, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure. I just had a feeling they might have got something from that silly fool Dark that might have been important.”

  “Well, if they did, they didn’t have it on them. Probably threw it away as soon as they got out of there.”

  “Good. That is reassuring. I hope you were not too violent, bearing in mind what I told you. I have had news that Philip Pugh has been taken in by the Police for questioning. Don’t worry, he won’t do the dirty on you and he doesn’t know anything important anyway. It does go to show, however, that we must be on our mettle. As I have stressed before, we cannot afford to underestimate the strength of the opposition. Theeth is gathering his forces here in London as we speak. I am reasonably certain there will be a confrontation in one form or another before the end of the week.”

  “What’s the form then? Straight fight, yah?” Etheridge drawled.

  “We will meet at a pre-arranged venue. To use your modern parlance, our people will meet with their people to arrange a suitable meeting-place, probably an empty house somewhere this side of the river. We have one or two places in mind. Theeth and I must confront each other first, before anything else can happen. These age-old rituals must be followed if a decisive outcome is
to be achieved, otherwise we will just be wasting our time. It is nearly seventy years since our last confrontation. It is therefore high time for another one and it is important to get the details right.” Pierre hoped that his patient methodical approach would help his two listeners to slow down.

  “What happened last time?” asked Oliver.

  “Oh, we won, of course. We won quite decisively.” Pierre Poivre could not refrain from a smirk of satisfaction at the memory.

  “Can’t we just jump ’em and then wipe ’em out in one go—one fell swoop, so to speak?”

  “No, Oliver. I have already told you this. It would negate any positive result. However, I may well need you to help me neutralise my rival and obviously, this will be resisted. That may well be your opportunity to intervene.”

  “Your little chaps and their little chaps will be around, I take it?” There was a hint of condescension in Etheridge’s voice not appreciated by his leader.

  “The little chaps, as you so disdainfully refer to them, Mr. Etheridge, cannot take part in the actual combat. They will be present to fetch and carry as required, and to put things back to rights when we have finished. They also undertake all the communicating between parties that must be carried out. You pour scorn on them at your peril.”

  “Sorry, chief,” Etheridge mumbled. “Just tell me again why there aren’t more Breakers and Custodians involved. We could finish the bastards off completely.”

  “Two reasons. Firstly, there are only a handful of each in this country at the moment who are strong enough to make a meaningful contribution. Of course, we could bring in reinforcements from other areas, but that way danger lies. If one side or the other were to suffer heavy casualties, it would seriously weaken their cause for generations to come. We cannot risk that happening, however powerful you think we might be. And secondly, as I have told you before, we cannot stage a full-scale battle and draw unwelcome eyes upon us. Too many probing questions could draw us out into the open. Just think how much the alcoholic redneck fraternity in this racist xenophobic land would relish a creature-hunt, if our existence were to be revealed. Can’t you just see the tabloids offering vast financial incentives for every “alien beast” captured, every “strange creature” cornered? We have survived undetected for thousands of years and I will not put such treasured anonymity at risk now. Take it from me, the other side will feel just the same. No, no, if we can eliminate Theeth and his two henchmen quietly and efficiently, it will set back their cause for decades. As it would us, if the unthinkable were to happen.”

  “That won’t happen,” Patterson snorted. “I’m going to finish that Taffy bastard off once and for all. He won’t escape me a third time.” It was as well Gareth and Beth could not see the expression of total malice in the thug’s eyes. It would certainly have done nothing for their peace of mind.

  Etheridge rolled his trouser leg up rather gingerly. “And that snooty Scouse bitch has got one or two things coming to her,” he growled, “And I don’t just mean my hands. She’ll sing a different song once I get inside her knickers.”

  “You can save some of that for me, too. Nice big pair of tits on her,” Patterson joined in, almost drooling at the thought of what he was going to do to Beth. “If they’ve got nothing that can damage you, it should just be a question of forcing some alcohol into the mouth of this Theeth fellah, then,” he continued. “Should be straightforward.”

  “IF they have got nothing on me. To the best of my knowledge, there is no likeness of me anywhere in existence. But we must not take anything for granted. There is too much at stake. Now I suggest you go off and rest for a couple of days. I will be in touch with you again soon enough, have no fear.”

  The two Breakers made their way out of the house once again, amid much ribaldry. They were supremely confident that their double thirst for violence and sex would soon be quenched, and in ample sufficiency, too. They set out to prepare themselves to further the cause of evil once again.

  Left to his own devices, Pierre Poivre sat deep in thought. The news about Pugh was unexpected. He had not thought the police might be called upon to get involved. Had the gnomes put a complaint in? No, that was most unlikely. Must have been locals. He hoped Patterson and Etheridge had not overstepped the mark. Some of their threats just now had been issued with rather more feeling than he would have liked. And he could not afford to lose too many useful local contacts. If the whole gang were rounded up, that could wipe out his influence in the entire area of Mid-Wales where Theeth was based. He needed to be able to keep tabs on the rival tribe at all times. Still, nothing threatened his own anonymity, so that was ok. As for Patterson and Etheridge, well… . There was no doubting their commitment to the cause but their tendency to violence and Oliver’s liking for the bottle might affect their judgement. He was an unpleasant piece of work but Pat was a complete psychopath—there was no saying how far he might go if he was in one of his mad phases. Pierre hoped the next few days might allow the pair of them to calm down. He would also need to give them a thorough briefing before the crucial encounter took place. It should be straightforward, though. He knew Theeth’s Achilles’ heel and was confident he could exploit it. And if there was additional killing to be done, he had no doubt his two companions would not hesitate. Patterson in particular would relish it. Did Theeth know of Pierre’s weakness? Most likely, but was there anything he could do about it? Pierre had never knowingly been photographed or portrayed in his entire lifetime but for a moment he just had an uneasy feeling. Yet his two enforcers had not found anything on the opposition, so he was probably safe and worrying for nothing. Probably… . but then again, he was Pierre Poivre, unbeatable, untouchable. Pour Punir would prevail once again. There was no way Theeth and his new helpers could get the better of him!

  29

  That night, as Beth and Gareth lay entwined in post-coital happiness, Beth said: “Tell me about your Mum and Dad.” Not only was she genuinely curious, but she wanted to make this time of peace and contentment last as long as possible.

  “There’s not a lot to say, really. I don’t know a great deal myself. My grandfather always blamed my Dad for the accident, without ever actually coming out and saying as much, so he hardly ever talked about him. He would rather say nothing than damn him but it was pretty obvious what he was thinking. From what I’ve read, he seems to have been a decent bloke with a strong personality and a good sense of humour. He loved my Mum to bits and really helped to bring her out of herself and I’ll always be grateful to him for that. I’m happy to leave it at that, actually. I don’t want to go probing and find out that he was a wife-beater or that he was into child-porn or cross-dressing. I’d rather not know. That bloke in the pub—Gethyn?—was the first person outside the family I’ve met who knew him and he had nothing bad to say about him, so… .”

  “Fair enough. What about your Mum?”

  “She’s more complicated. I don’t know if I told you, but she was a manic depressive. My grandfather tod me she suffered from violent mood swings. Some days she was really, really down, the old Winston Churchill Black Dog. He was one too, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. He also won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1953, so it needn’t be a handicap.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “You should read some of his stuff. It’s brilliantly written.”

  “I might very well do that. At other times, my mother was as high as a kite. She would think she had written every song ever composed. Remember that Barry Manilow song; “I am music and I write the songs.” ? That was our Gwyneth.”

  “She was a poet, wasn’t she? I remember reading a couple of her poems at Uni. She was quite highly thought of, as I recall.”

  “Yes. A lot of it’s very dark, though. Even the “good” ones have unhappy endings.”

  “Are you going to sort out her collected works? I’d love to help you with that,
if you’d let me.”

  “Yes, I certainly would. When all this is over… .” Gareth yawned ominously.

  “Obviously, you don’t carry them all around with you, but can you remember any of the shorter ones?” Crafty move, Beth!

  “Yes, of course. There’s a nice little one she wrote after a school trip to Austria. She went on a train ride there where the line ran right by people’s gardens. You’ll see what I mean about the ending:

  {With apologies to the poet Rose Fyleman—note by RF}

  There’s a railway at the bottom of our garden

  The trains came trundling through in days of yore

  But in spite of our beseeching

  They were axed by Dr. Beeching

  And now they don’t come through here anymore.

  There’s a railway at the bottom of our garden

  The trains came chuffing through here in the past.

  Will no-one tell the story

  Of these trains in all their glory

  Or is it one more thing that will not last?

  There’s a railway at the bottom of our garden

  A train came snaking through the other night

  It surely was a stranger

  And the trucks were all marked “Danger!”

  It really was a terrifying sight.

  There’s a railway at the bottom of our garden

  These trains come creeping through each now and then.

  But does anybody care

  For the cargoes these trains bear

  Or must we go on suff’ring them again?

  There was a railway at the bottom of our garden.

  It’s not there now

  And neither are we.

  Boom!”

  “I see what you mean about the ending. Rather macabre, in a way.”

  “Yes, I think she had a taste for the morbid. There’s another one, much longer, based on Christmas carols. It’s about a dysfunctional family at Christmas, who’ve got no money to buy more booze on Christmas Day. Two of them go across the road to try and extort money from the poor old dear who lives there, but she’s as badly off as they are. The bloke hits her, she falls, bangs her head on the step and dies.