‘Insofar as I’ll ever be, yes.’
‘Okay then, carry on.’
‘Right. The answer to your question Sammy, before we were so rudely interrupted, is that I got called out to investigate reports of an abandoned car, partially obstructing the flow of traffic, on the very edge of my patch. I thought nothing of it because it’s surprising how many of them you get, quite serviceable cars many of them, until I recognised it as the one young Trevor Jones has been riding around in. What I didn’t know about was all the trouble he and Tania had been having—why wasn’t I told?’
‘It wasn’t really a “polis” matter, Stan,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘and you just didn’t happen to be around at the right time when things were going on.’
The recumbent policeman sighed.
‘Oh well, anyway, there the car was, abandoned on the inside lane looking as if it had skewed to a halt diagonally across the road. No sign of Trevor about, no note left or anything. A bit of a puzzle, I thought. So I looked inside and noticed that the keys were still in the ignition.’
‘But the engine was off?’ I asked.
‘Yes, the motor was quite cold. Well, as the station had rightly said, the car was obstructing traffic and so I got in with the intention of driving it over into a lay-by and out of harm’s way until Trevor could be located. Then, as I turned the keys, the radio suddenly came on—it must have been left running, you see. As God is my witness, you must believe me, Trevor’s voice came out of the radio together with that of a little girl talking to him and tormenting him. Trevor was screaming and begging for her to stop.
I listened for a little while, and then the next thing I knew was waking up in here. Very embarrassing for a policeman of all people to faint like that.’
Nobody responded for a minute or so and then Mr Disvan quietly spoke for us all.
‘What exactly was she saying to Trevor, Stan?’
What little colour there was in the policeman’s face rapidly fled. He seemed to forget our presence.
‘Stan?’ Disvan prompted.
He looked at us again but this time as if at strangers.
‘Believe me, you really don’t want to know. Nurse! Can you get these visitors to go, please?’
* * *
‘Well, thank you for telling me what you can,’ said Tania. ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Mr Disvan?’
‘No thank you.’
‘You’re taking it very well, Miss Knott,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘but a reaction may set in. I’ll prescribe you something to help you sleep.’
‘That’s thoughtful. I feel okay at the moment, but I’m not so sure about when I’m left on my own.’
‘Why not go and stay at your parents?’ I asked in as kindly a voice as possible.
‘No, I prefer to stay here in case he returns.’
‘That’s far from likely, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Disvan.
‘Possibly so, but it could happen. Trevor’s not dead you know.’
‘No... but at the risk of seeming cruel, my dear, the day must come, sooner or later, when you’ll have to act as if he is.’
With anyone else I would have described her reply as vehement, but with Miss Knott that would have been too harsh a term.
‘That day will never come, Mr Disvan. Trevor is alive and with us even though we can’t speak to him.’
‘To be precise,’ said the landlord, ‘he’s parked in your garage.’
Mr Disvan reproved him with a look.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean it to sound quite that blunt. It just came out that way. What will you do with yourself now?’
‘‘What can I do? If I was to sell the car I’d lose track of Trevor—and lay someone else open to the risk of sharing his fate. If I had it destroyed… well, that’d be like killing him.’
‘I doubt the car would allow itself to be destroyed,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘That was Trevor’s fatal—if you’ll excuse the term, Tania—mistake. He acted rashly and the car’s owner, the real owner, defended itself.’
‘Probably you’re right, although I’ll never see it that way. I hate the car’s owner.’
‘Of course you do, that’s more than understandable.’
‘So the car will just have to stay there in the garage. I’ll look after it, make sure it lives as long as I live and, who knows, perhaps I’ll wake up one day to find that Trevor’s found his way out. It’s not the marriage I would have dreamed of, but it’s better than nothing.’
Quiet fell upon the room as each of us in our own way pondered the implications of Tania’s words. Disvan looked at her with something approaching admiration and even I, not an unduly sentimental man, was touched by her steadfast loyalty—however misguided.
The silence, being maintained, became uncomfortable and Tania appeared to be slipping into a dark reverie as she contemplated the lonely life of vigilance before her. We racked our brains for some words of consolation that would not be entirely facile. Alas, as before, the landlord’s mind was more agile and less discriminating than ours and he spoke first.
‘Well, at least you can still go out for a drive together,’ he said.
Tania looked at him for a moment and then began to weep as if only death would stop her.
WAITING FOR A BUS
‘Have you met Bob Springer, Mr Oakley?’
‘I don’t believe I have, Mr Disvan. How do you do, Mr Springer?’
‘Not so bad, thank you. And please call me Bob like everyone else does. How long have you been living in our village, Mr Oakley?’
‘Three or four years in all, though my family originally came from here. Isn’t that so, Mr Disvan?’
Disvan obviously thought a sage nod was all the response required by my semi-rhetorical question, but I noticed that Springer watched keenly for his answer before continuing the conversation.
‘Not long then.’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
A silence fell on our little gathering as we all regrouped in search of something else to say and the pause, although slightly awkward, gave me an opportunity to study this new acquaintance and to judge whether the effort was merited.
Bob Springer was, I decided, a perfectly ordinary and unexceptional little old man; one of the seemingly inexhaustible supply of such who quietly inhabited the obscurer corners of Binscombe’s pubs and parks for a few years before drifting off unnoticed into the greater quiet of the grave. I’d also observed that a female of the species existed although their natural habitat was the local Anglican church. However, that’s another tale.
Then, as I looked closer, I realised that I was wrong in my initial evaluation of him and that his ordinariness was so extreme as to be far from ordinary; that he was unexceptional to a thoroughly exceptional degree. This peculiarity could perhaps account for the fact that, despite having lived a number of years in this smallish community, I did not recall having seen Mr Springer even once before, although I was now quite willing to believe that our paths could have crossed many times each and every day. If they had, it was not surprising that he’d escaped my attention so far for he was a singularly unnoticeable sort of man. Unbidden, the whimsical thought occurred to me that he would have made the perfect assassin.
‘Would you like a drink, gentlemen?’ he said.
‘Well… I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I was just thinking I ought to be getting home.’
Springer looked at me with an expression of grim, almost threatening, intent that took me by surprise and said ‘I insist’ in a tone that, insofar as he could manage, brooked no refusal.
I could think of no pressing reason why I should give offence, however inexplicable, by refusing his request cum command.
‘Very well, that’s kind of you. I’ll have a pint of Directors please.’
‘And you, Disvan?’
‘If you do insist, I’ll have my usual, thank you.’
Springer, now suddenly a meek and mild little old man once again, took our glasses and scuttled up
to the bar.
‘What got into him?’ I said to Mr Disvan who seemed as unruffled as ever by the strange behaviour of others.
‘He wants someone to walk him home I expect. That’s the danger of talking to Bob Springer near to closing time.’
‘Why? What’s the matter? Is someone waiting outside for him?’
‘As ever, Mr Oakley, you have the strange knack of hitting the nail right on the head completely by accident. Leastways, I assume it’s by accident. Maybe your ancient Binscombe blood shows through in the form of second sightedness.’
‘I’ll assume that you jest, Mr Disvan although, being the master of enigma that you are, it’s never easy to tell.’
‘Sticks and stones, Mr Oakley, mere sticks and stones.’
‘Careful now, he’s coming back.’
‘Here we are, gents, drinks all round.’
‘Many thanks, Mr Springer—or Bob, should I say.’
‘Not at all, your very good health.’
I noticed that Mr Disvan did not straight away take a drink in response to this toast as we did, but sat quite still giving Springer a very cool look indeed. The old man pretended not to notice that he was under this scrutiny even though it was pretty open. Instead he gave himself body and soul to an observation of the table top. At length Disvan broke the silence.
‘Talking of good health, I suppose these drinks mean you want us to escort you home.’
Springer’s expression was a blend of relief and embarrassment but his reply was both speedy and decisive:
‘Yes please.’
Disvan turned to me: ‘Do you have the time to spare to walk Bob home, Mr Oakley?’
‘I suppose so, if it’s necessary.’
‘I’d be very grateful if you would,’ said Springer eagerly. ‘It’d save so much time.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you two come along I won’t have to walk the long way home all through Compton.’
‘Where do you live then?’
‘Trebizond Crescent.’
‘But Compton’s miles out of your way if you’re going to Trebizond Crescent.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Mr Disvan, can you shed any light on this please?’
‘Surely anything I say will be construed to be enigmatic.’
‘Quite possibly, but even so…’
At this point our joint host interrupted my visibly flailing questions and brought debate to a close by interposing the call, ‘Time gentlemen please!’
‘Will you do this for me?’ said Springer plaintively.
‘Well, okay, if that’s what you want. Are you game, Mr Disvan?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Springer beamed with pleasure or some such feeling. ‘That’s marvellous, I’ll be home in time to watch the snooker.’
‘Well I won’t now,’ said Disvan.
‘You could watch it at my place I suppose, but you know the wife’s a tartar about visitors.’
‘Indeed I do, Bob.’
‘That’s unworthy of you, Mr Disvan. My problem shouldn’t deprive me of the right to some dignity and courtesy, you know.’
‘Quite right, well said. I apologise.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Look, can we go now?’ I interposed. ‘I have to be up early to go to work tomorrow.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Springer in a placatory way, ‘the sooner the better.’
We left along with the rest of the pub’s patrons but soon lost them in the maze of darkened streets as each went their separate way. There was no conversation in our little group and I did not press any further for an explanation from Springer or Disvan. If indeed there was an explanation for this present episode (and one could not count on it in present company) then its revelation must await some future time, for I was in no mood for long stories or excuses.
Trebizond Crescent, our destination, was not a long way from The Duke of Argyll but it seemed far enough that night when there appeared to be no good reason to make the trip. Consequently I began to harbour a degree of mild resentment towards the man who had set me upon it and answered somewhat sharply when, halfway along, he made a further demand.
‘Eyes left!’ Springer hissed.
‘What?’
‘Eyes left, you fool!’
‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’
‘Humour him, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan in a neutral tone, ‘he thinks he’s doing you a favour.’
‘Eyes left! Don’t look over there or he’ll see you.’
‘Who will?’
‘It doesn’t matter, just don’t look and keep walking.’
Springer seemed genuinely alarmed, indeed almost frantic, and was, I observed, marching ahead very briskly with his face turned firmly to the left. Disvan, presumably by way of compromise, was staring at the ground as he walked along.
As previously explained, I was in a recalcitrant frame of mind and little disposed to stand any more nonsense from the old man. I therefore stopped and looked in the direction forbidden me but saw nothing unusual. Exactly as on our side of the road a strip of wooded wasteland bordered the pavement and beyond that the lights of a few large houses, well set back from the road, could be seen. Directly opposite me was a bus shelter of the more modern type lit by its own neon filament, but no-one was standing by it or sitting on its obviously older bench seat. Apart from ourselves the whole road was deserted and empty even of motor traffic and I could see no-one or no-thing whose gaze I should avoid as Springer insisted.
In the time it took to satisfy myself of this my two companions had progressed a further hundred yards up the road where they now waited for me. I hastened to join them.
‘There’s absolutely no-one over there, Springer. What on earth were you on about?’
‘That was a very silly thing you did, Mr Oakley, if I may say so.’
‘Why?’
‘You may have been lucky enough not to see him but he was studying you—rest assured.’
‘Who, for God’s sake?’
‘No blasphemy please, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan quietly.
‘I’m sorry but really... this is ridiculous. Just look for yourself, Mr Springer, back down the road. There’s not a soul about.’
‘I daren’t,’ Springer said, and kept his attention fixed firmly to the front.
‘Well, if you won’t, you won’t, I suppose.’
‘No I won’t. Let’s move on, please.’
And this we did without further debate, albeit with bad grace on my part.
Ten more minutes of silent and brisk walking brought us at last to Springer’s house. Once there he made for the door like a drowning man, pausing only to shout a seemingly genuine ‘thank you very much’ at us before slamming it shut. We then heard the rattling of chains and sliding of bolts as fortress Springer was made secure for the night.
‘What the bloody hell was that all about, Mr Disvan?’
‘That, Mr Oakley, was all about a man’s complete submission to fear.’
‘Very enigmatic.’
‘But true nevertheless.’
‘Tell me no more. In less than seven hours I have to be up and about again yet I’m needlessly still out in the cold, twenty minutes walk from my house. In fact that thought makes me feel more fractious than I already am and therefore I’ve run out of curiosity for today.’
‘I quite understand. After knowing Bob Springer for all these years and despite understanding his problem, even I find it hard it to be patient with him.’
I fully recognised this to be a fine example of what I called Mr Disvan’s ‘hook lines’, whereby each answer he provided carried not merely the seed but the ripe, ready to drop, fruit of another question. It was a great temptation, despite my professed lack of curiosity, to ask just what Springer’s apparently readily understandable problem was, but by an act of will I managed to break the question-and-answer chain.
‘Doubtless the explanation that I feel entitled to will wait a day or
two more after ‘all these years’, Mr Disvan. Goodnight to you.’
‘As you say, it can wait—forever if need be—and anyway it’s best that he tell you himself why he’s so afeared and why you’ve been put out. Goodnight then.’
The shortest paths to our respective homes lay in different directions and so I strode off Binscombe-ward alone. This waste of time, this loss of supper, snooker and sleep I’d already put down to mere local folly of which there was no shortage. But even so, as I walked, I found that of their own volition, my eyes searched intently the dark shadows of that side of the road forbidden by Mr Springer.
* * *
‘Look out, he’s here again!’
‘Avoid his eye and keep talking.’
‘Too late—he’s seen me.’
‘It’s another late night for us then.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’
‘Here he is.’
‘Mr Disvan and Mr Oakley, how are you?’
‘Very well thank you, Bob.’
‘Would you like a drink, gentlemen?’
‘Not if it obliges us to chaperon you home again, thank you all the same.’
My pre-conceived, perhaps somewhat harsh response earned me one of Disvan’s rare full-face stares. His expression was, as ever, inscrutable and the meaning of these admonitions or questions or whatever they were had to be guessed from the context of the occasion. In present circumstances I took it to signify some surprise on his part at my uncharacteristic lack of charity.
I’d observed before the surprising power of these visual shots across-the-bow upon the locals but was even more surprised to find an urgent desire to appease evoked in myself by the same means. Did this imply that I, a foreigner in their terms, and an ‘educated’ man to boot, was becoming subject to the tribal mores of Binscombe?.
‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t really called for. It’s just that... well, I don’t want to be late home tonight.’
‘That’s all right, I understand,’ he said in a voice that was indeed full of sad understanding. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No, please do.’
He sat down and toyed absently with one of the empty beer bottles on the table.
‘Of course,’ he then said abruptly, ‘Mr Disvan says I’m a fool to live in such fear but then again, with all respect, he’s not had to suffer what I’ve suffered.’
Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 8
