by Jodi Taylor
Jones walked from one to the other, rapping on the breastplates.
‘Just checking they’re empty,’ he explained.
I rolled my eyes.
‘People get married here sometimes,’ said Alex, his tone of voice clearly indicating his bewilderment that people would choose to do any such thing. Whether it was the ceremony or the location of the ceremony that was causing his disapproval remained unclear. ‘They come through there’ – he indicated a door beside a faded tapestry depicting, in gruesome detail, a pack of hounds bringing down a stag – ‘and then they go out that way to have a lot to drink.’ He indicated an arched door at the other end. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘Is there any drink there now?’ said Jones.
They shook their heads.
‘Then no. What else have you got?’
They’d got the lot. We saw the Long Gallery. ‘We used to play cricket in here,’ said Alex, surveying the pock marked walls, ‘but Daddy said we were bringing the walls down and to stop.’
We saw the library with shelves of musty leather volumes that I doubted anyone had ever read. Leading out of that was a picture gallery with portraits of long dead ancestors.
‘Rookwoods on this wall,’ said Alex pointing. ‘Crofts on that one. Before the Crofts were the Scrotes, but they were Norman so we don’t talk about them and they hadn’t invented painting then anyway.’
‘Do you know who’s who?’ asked Jones and, not to my surprise, they did.
‘We have to,’ announced Leo. ‘Daddy asks us questions.’
He led us slowly down the room. I didn’t look much at the faces. In my experience, all portraits tend to look like the monarch reigning at the time they were painted. I always think it’s astonishing how many men look like Queen Anne.
I pointed to a small portrait of an unexpectedly lively-looking lady by the empty fireplace. ‘Who’s that?’
‘That’s Arabella Croft. She was a special friend of Charles II,’ said Leo, innocently.
‘Ah,’ said Jones, grinning at me.
‘Daddy says we should be earls because King Charles always made his special friends’ children earls or dukes, but we think he forgot us, so we’re not earls.’
They seemed quite cheerful about not being earls.
We walked around while the boys gave us a potted history of each portrait. A depressing number of them seemed to have been either on their way to a battle from which they never returned or if they did, only to head for the scaffold shortly afterwards.
‘We never pick the right side,’ said Leo cheerfully. ‘That’s why we’re poor.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Jones, gravely. ‘Can we see the dungeons? Are there any bodies left over from the Middle Ages? Do you have a torture chamber here?’
Their eyes sparkled. ‘Come and see.’
We descended some death-trap steps and along a narrow corridor to what I suspected had been nothing more than a perfectly ordinary cellar in its time, with a perfectly ordinary grating in the floor.
‘Just a minute,’ said Alex. There was some fumbling in a box on the wall and a lot of whispering. ‘Usually it’s operated by sensors,’ he explained. ‘but we switch it off in the winter because we only have visitors in the summer,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘but it’s really good.’
‘You have to stand exactly here,’ said Leo.
Jones grinned at me and we stood exactly there.
‘Ready?’ said Alex.
Leo plucked my sleeve. ‘You might want to hold Mr Jones’s hand. It’s very scary. Ladies scream sometimes.’
‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Jones gravely, and put his arm around me. ‘Don’t worry, dear. I’ll look after you.’
Alex flicked a switch and we were enveloped in a spooky green light.
‘Look,’ shouted Leo and we peered through the grating in the floor. Down below, a skeleton sat up suddenly, a rat ran across the body and an eldritch scream echoed around the cellar.
‘Pretty cool, eh?’ said Leo, proudly.
‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘I was terrified.’
‘The rat’s electric,’ confided Alex.
‘Really?’ said Jones. ‘I would never have guessed.’
We visited the old kitchen tower, complete with spits and cauldrons. It was miles from the Banqueting Hall. God knows how they ever got a hot meal.
We saw the bedroom where, said the boys, Queen Elizabeth had slept. The original hangings were still there – they said – all in faded purple and gold.
And then there was Lady Croft’s Sitting Room, furnished in early 18th-century style, and looking, I thought, extremely uncomfortable, with dark wooden chairs and tables. More gloomy portraits hung on the walls. ‘That’s Lady Croft,’ said Alex, pointing at the picture over the fireplace.
‘She doesn’t look very happy,’ I said.
They looked at each other. ‘She wasn’t,’ said Alex, simply. He took a deep breath. ‘There’s more to see. Come on.’
Everything was up twisty stairs, through tiny doors, along dark, narrow passages and then back down twisty stairs again. I became quite bewildered. And cold.
‘Enough,’ said Jones, when they showed signs of wanting to go outside and show us the deer park, the herb garden, the maze – ‘It’s not very tall yet but it’s going to be great!’ – and the stocks. ‘We’ll take Mrs Jones back for her afternoon nap, you can collect your dog, and we’ll see you tomorrow.’
I spent the rest of the day back in our warm room, watching the rain come down.
Chapter Fourteen
I awoke next morning to a weak and watery sun.
‘Great,’ said Jones, buttering toast. ‘Spring is here.’
I scowled at him and poured myself some coffee.
He pushed a paper and pen towards me. ‘Shopping list. Add anything you think we might need.’
Without even looking, I scribbled ‘Sunshine and Warmth’ at the bottom.
He looked at me in some concern. ‘Are you cold? Do you think you’re going down with something?’
The fire was blazing away in the living room and we had somehow acquired Juno and an anonymous Jack Russell, both of whom were stretched out in front of the fire and trying to present as much of themselves as possible to the flames.
‘No,’ I said, reluctantly. ‘I’m just …’ and stopped because I didn’t know what I was just …
‘Talk to me, Cage.’
I stared at him helplessly.’ I don’t even know where to begin.’
He sat back and sipped his coffee. ‘Could you at least indicate your areas of concern? You know, give me something to work with.’
‘Well, to begin with – you.’
He smirked complacently. ‘Top of yet another list. What about me?’
‘Well, who are you?’
‘I told you. Michael Jones. Really, Cage, I think a lot of your problems stem from the fact you don’t listen properly.’
I ignored this. ‘All right, since that’s too difficult for you, ‘Who’s Sorensen? And don’t say Head of the Sorensen Clinic. You know that’s not what I mean.’
He nodded. ‘OK.’ He twirled his mug around on the table, moving the handle first to the right, then to the left. I waited.
‘Ever heard the phrase, “Psychological Warfare”?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, I’m not going into any great detail because then I’d have to kill you, but basically it involves devising ways of misleading, deceiving and intimidating people.’
‘What sort of people? Enemies?’
‘Yes, but allies too, of course, because sometimes they’re even more dangerous than our enemies. Basically, anyone he’s told to. You know what he’s like. His masters just wind him up and let him go.’
‘But what does he do?’
He sighed. ‘He’s an expert on behaviour. That’s what makes him so dangerous. He can predict how people will behave under certain conditions and how to manipulate them accordingly. He can tailor
-make propaganda tools. He can advise on how to mislead, deceive or even intimidate anyone he’s instructed to. He seeks out other people’s vulnerabilities.’
‘Why?’
‘Blackmail, usually. A little pressure at the right time in the right place.’
‘But …’ I said, struggling with my lifelong view of ‘us’ as the good guys.
‘And that’s just the socially acceptable side of what he does. He supervises interrogations – which means he tells people like me which questions to ask. Which buttons to press to get results.’
‘What sort of results?’
He smiled slightly. ‘The right ones.’
I looked at him. He was telling the truth, but not all of the truth. I could tell by the way his colour was wrapped so defensively around him.
I had to ask. ‘Do you work for Sorensen?’
‘Well, strictly speaking, at this precise moment, I’m just a patient. Like you. I was at the clinic for assessment, prior to returning to work. When I get my clearance back I’ll work for a department that frequently avails itself of his services. And vice versa, of course.’
I shivered. ‘He’s a bad man.’
‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘He’s not. No, he’s not likeable, in that he does tend to regard the human race as his own personal chess set, but he has a job to do and he does it. It’s not his responsibility what others do with the information he provides.’
‘Yes, I know the argument,’ I said bitterly. ‘Guns aren’t bad – it’s the people who pull the trigger who are bad.’
He shrugged. ‘He stands behind those who do, but no, he doesn’t give the orders. He’s one of those invisible people who are always careful to remain out of sight.’
‘And he wants me.’
‘He does, Cage. He wants you very badly. But not to the extent of harming you. You have the potential to be a valuable asset.’
I remembered suddenly that I’d told Jones what I could do. About people’s colours … about seeing things … what had I been thinking?
As if he could read my mind, he said, ‘Relax, will you. You’d already shown me what you could do long before you told me, but I’d guessed some of it anyway. You probably can’t help it but you do have a certain look. I can’t describe it. Clear-eyed. Direct. As if you could see straight into my brain and know what I’m thinking.’
I think I was probably staring at him like a small and terrified rabbit caught in car headlights.
‘Look, he’s not going to hurt you. He’ll want you willing and cooperative. I know you’re frightened and you don’t know what’s going on, or how this could be happening to you, but I told you – I’ll help you get away. I’ll help you with anything you need. You just have to work out what you do need, which is why I’ve brought you here. Safe, remote and comfortable. You can take all the time you need to think and then we’ll put together a plan and sort everything out. OK?’
I nodded – not much comforted.
‘Good. Get your coat,’ he said, getting to his feet and picking up the list. ‘Fresh air will do you good.’
I braced myself as we stepped out of the door into the courtyard but the knife-edged wind had gone. Standing in the sun waiting for Jones to pull on his gloves was rather pleasant in this sheltered place. We walked through the tunnel and out into the sunshine, surveying the village laid out before us.
‘Satisfied?’ he said, gesturing around. ‘No black helicopters. No armed SWAT teams waiting to shoot you because you looked at them wrong. No sinister limousines with tinted windows – well, other than the one you made me steal, of course.’
‘I made you steal? Excuse me …’
‘Apology accepted. This way I think,’ he said, taking my arm.
‘The shop is that way.’
‘I thought we could have a look around the place. You know, since we’re supposed to be on holiday. Really, Cage, you could at least try and act the part of wife and tourist.’
I heaved a martyred sigh but in fact the village was lovely, with neat-as-new-pin stone cottages around two sides of the triangular village green. The tiny church was set back a little, the grey stone tower peeping out from behind skeletal trees.
‘Excellent village planning,’ said Jones. ‘Shop and pubs side by side.’
We wandered around the green, admiring people’s gardens. I have to say the view from this high up was superb, with fields, hedgerows, woodlands all spread out beneath us, and the towering moors behind us. Right through the valley, a small river cut a glittering path as it meandered its gentle way to wherever it was going. The sky was that weak and washed-out turquoise blue you often get on cold days. And Jones was right. You could see anything coming from miles and miles away.
I watched my breath puff in front of me.
‘Shopping first or lunch first?’ he asked.
‘We’ve only just had breakfast.’
‘No, you’ve only just had breakfast. Not that a cup of coffee is breakfast. But you’re right. Shopping first, then lunch.’
I thought the shop would be dim and dusty, and we’d have to grope our way around mousetraps and sacks of cabbages and tractor parts, but it was laid out like a bright and modern supermarket. Half the counter served the shop, the other half was the post office.
As we entered, the shopkeeper, a plump woman with her hair in a neat bun and half-moon glasses was saying, ‘More cans of WD40, boys? What are you doing up at the castle? Eating it?’
Alex and Leo stood before her, a small cardboard box on the counter into which she was placing two cans of WD40.
‘Daddy sent us,’ said Alex and the lie tinged his colour a dirty brown.
‘Here you are then. Shall I put it on the castle account?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Alex. ‘We’ll pay now.’
Jones watched thoughtfully as Alex carefully counted out the coins and handed them over. Leo picked up the box and they turned to find us standing behind them. Leo grinned but Alex’s colour reeled away from us and then turned even more brown. There was very little purple showing today.
‘Hello there,’ said Jones, affably.
‘We’re buying this for Daddy,’ said Alex even though no one had asked.
Jones said nothing.
‘He’s … cleaning a rusty sword.’
Jones said nothing.
‘For the armour. In the hall.’
Seeming to realise he was digging himself in deeper with every word, he nudged Leo. ‘We have to go. Goodbye.’
Jones watched him go and then said, ‘So what shall we get for this evening, Cage? Pasta? Chicken?’
We bought two bags full of basic groceries, wandering up and down the aisles and arguing gently. I noticed he walked straight past the alcohol section, although that meant nothing.
We paid for our groceries and Jones asked if we could collect them later.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Are you out for a walk?’
‘Lunch,’ said Jones, firmly. ‘In the pub. Come along, Cage.’
‘He hasn’t eaten for thirty minutes,’ I said to her, ‘and it makes him grumpy.’
She laughed. ‘He’s a growing boy.’
We both surveyed the bulk that was Michael Jones. I said, ‘God, I hope not.’
‘Hey,’ he said indignantly, but his colour was flickering with gold and cream. He was happy and relaxed. Of course, that might just have been because we were going to the pub.
We walked around the green again – to work up an appetite –and then into the pub. It was barely lunchtime and there weren’t many people inside. The bar was very traditional – all done out with hunting prints and horse brasses, and a bright log fire burned. Jones ordered the drinks – a lemonade for me and a beer for him – I picked up the menus and we took ourselves off to a quiet corner.
‘What do you fancy?’ he said, taking a good swig and picking up the menu.
‘I’ll just have a snack,’ I said.
‘You’ll have a proper meal,’ he said sternly
.
‘You’re very considerate for a kidnapper.’
‘It is the duty of every kidnapper to ensure his victim eats a properly balanced diet. Or in your case, Cage, anything at all. Now, order.’
In the end, we both went for Yorkshire puddings filled with sausages and covered in gravy. It was delicious. I ate every last mouthful. Jones said nothing but in a very meaningful manner. And afterwards, apparently, it was my round.
I thought the place would have filled up by now, and a few people had come in, but mostly, it was just us.
‘Agricultural community,’ said Jones. ‘They’ll all be out in the fields doing …’
I waited expectantly.
‘… agricultural things. But I bet you can’t move in here in the evenings.’
‘When they’ve finished doing agricultural things.’
‘You can’t do agricultural things in the dark.’
‘Aren’t they a band?’
‘That’s Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. Really. Cage, do try and keep up.’
‘You know a lot about this sort of thing. Are you a country boy?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve listened to more episodes of The Archers than you can possibly imagine.’
‘Why? Was it some sort of punishment?’
‘I shall pass over your insult to a fine programme and just say – surveillance.’
I was bewildered. ‘You surveilled The Archers?’
He shook his head. ‘Have you ever wished you’d never started a conversation?’
‘I’ve met people I wished I hadn’t.’
‘And to think I used to envy Ted his comfortable domestic life. I had no idea you were so …’
‘Yes?’
‘Now I’m really wishing I hadn’t started this conversation.’
Silence fell.
‘So,’ I said, in an effort to pick it back up again, ‘you yearn for domestic happiness.’
‘Well, I don’t think that was quite what I said, but … well … yes, sometimes. Then, of course, I listen to other people moaning about their other halves and realise I’ve never had it so good.’
He wasn’t quite telling the truth. His colour was saying otherwise.
