Bullion was dressed for the inclement weather. He had on a merino wool tee shirt underneath his synthetic waterproof shirt, a waterproof, hooded jacket, pants with padded wool socks, and mid-weight, leather backpacking boots. He also carried a small canteen of provisions and a gallon of water. When Bullion did things, he liked to think he did them to the fullest and didn’t scrimp on the necessary equipment.
Ingot, on the other hand, was in shorts and a blue fisherman’s cagoule, and, while his getup was great to look at, it was totally impractical. He did make an effort to get the right hiking boots but had come grossly unprepared for the weather at this elevation.
“I bet you’re a bit nippy, eh?” asked Bullion.
“No, Boss.”
“Well, if we keep moving at a fast clip and get over this damp ridge, we should be fine.”
“They said it was going to be sunny today, and I still believe them,” said Ingot.
“Yes, well, I’ve never trusted the buggers when it comes to the pursuit of outdoor recreation. I remember there’s a little old lady that says there’s a hurricane on the way episode.”
“Well, technically they were right—it wasn’t,” said Ingot in defence.
“Yes, but it was the worst storm to hit the south coast in recorded history.”
“Meh, they’re right most of the time. Besides, I didn’t think you’d be one to be siding with little old ladies?”
“I’m not. I’m just saying they questioned the old dear for trying to warn them, and they got it wrong. I’m a results man nothing more nothing less. And as far as I’m concerned, little old ladies one, meteorologists zero. Nuff said.”
Bullion was keen to feel the wet, peaty bog squelching underfoot and hurried his pace till they scaled the dizzy heights of Kinder Scout at 638 metres.
“That’s some view,” said Bullion, looking out over the land.
“Boss, I can’t see much apart from the fog and the steps we’ve just come up.”
“Use your imagination and enjoy the country air. It’s not everyday you get the chance to live the dream.”
“Right, Boss.”
Ingot pulled his jacket out to release the sweat and damp from his body.
“You don’t see me sweating, do you? And I’m twice your age. You need to start a fitness regimen and come work out with me. We’ll do kickboxing three times a week and weights twice a week. That’ll get your anemic blood flowing.”
Ingot didn’t appreciate the sarcasm or the scoffing that accompanied it.
“Are we ready to descend, Boss?”
“I’m ready. Are you?”
Ingot raised the brim of his Packers hat in acknowledgement.
“I hear the Kinder Scout Downfall is a joy to behold with the right weather.”
“And what constitutes the right weather?” asked Ingot, looking around into the abyss.
Bullion smiled. He knew Ingot was questioning his decision to join him.
“You watch as we come down. All of God’s beauty will reveal itself before you.”
“Right, Boss.”
What started as dribbles down the cracks of the rocks soon swelled into a cascading gush. Ingot descended, wet and cautious, and joined Bullion at the bottom as he stood back in wonder.
“My God, Ingot, is that a sight! Look at the stark beauty that this great nation has to offer.”
Ingot nodded rubbing his Achilles.
“A problem?”
“Yes, Boss, I think I’ve got a blister.”
“A blister?”
“Yes, Boss, on my heal.”
Bullion pulled out a small first aid kit from his jacket and removed a plaster from it.
“Sit down on the rock.”
Ingot awkwardly followed the instruction.
“Now take that boot off.”
Ingot did as he was told. Bullion took hold of his tender foot and looked at the trauma.
“New boots. If you don’t use this you always get blisters,” said Bullion, pulling out a small jar and applying it to the exposed foot.
He rubbed the petroleum jelly gently into the irritated epidermis. Bullion noticed a lack of hair or stubble on Ingot’s legs.
“You know, for a man, you have incredibly dainty feet.”
Ingot tried to cover his foot with his hand.
“You don’t have much body hair at all. In fact, I’ve met burn victims with more,” said Bullion. “I didn’t realize your legs were so soft.”
“Erm… thanks, Boss,” he answered grabbing the plaster and putting the thing on himself. He hurriedly forced his sock and boot back on and limped away.
“Wrong way Boyo. Back you come to daddy. This direction is home.”
“Right Boss,” said Ingot, following him down into the peat bogs.
The rocks seemed to be subsiding with each step as the morass increased. Ingot shook his boot from the thick black mud.
“Boss, why?”
“Why? Ingot, because it’s here and part of our heritage. The Pennine Way is the backbone of England. This is what we live for. Come on, I’ll race you to Snake Pass. Last one there buys the pies,” said Bullion, pulling out his compass.
Ingot watched him take his bearings before putting it back and heading off in front. Ingot hobbled on behind slowly as Bullion increased his pace and disappeared into the ever expanding misty mountain fog. He called back as he forged further ahead, teasing him.
“Ingot, what do I have in my pocket?” Bullion pulled out his compass again waving it in the air.
When Ingot finally got to the main road, he looked around for Bullion and saw his tail end twenty lengths away in deep country. He checked his map and decided to hitch.
Bullion was gone by now. As Ingot studied his map again, he realized he was only a short distance away from The Snake Pass Inn, with warmth and food and shelter. He wasn’t going to be following Bullion anymore today and sat down by the roadside to wait for a lift. Once Ingot arrived at the pub, he was greeted by a friendly group of fellow lost walkers and was immediately invited to join them.
Bullion continued over Bleaklow Head through the secluded high peat passes and onto the elusive charity of Crowden. The last part of the hike, although descending, was surprisingly unpleasant as it was a lot longer than he had imagined it would be. He was exhausted but happy to be crowned king hiker, as he stood overlooking the magnificent Torside Reservoir and the green and black surrounding hillside.
He headed into the village to find the nearest pub and celebrate his victory. He had arrived three hours ahead of his pick up. He cruised the village in search of a warm sanctuary. After several pleasantries with the locals and not finding what he was looking for he decided to ask.
“Where’s the pub?”
“Which one?” Asked the local.
“Any one.”
“Nearest one is three miles from here.”
“There’s no pub in Crowden?” asked Bullion.
“No. Nearest one is three miles down the A57. That way,” said the local pointing
Bullion repeated his answer over and over in his head.
“How can that be?”
He was spent and didn’t like the idea of another three-mile trek. Frustratingly, he asked the local for directions for the nearest taxi station.
“We don’t have one of those, but I can call Amos. He’ll give you a ride. Hang on, there he is now.”
“Amos, where you heading?” he asked.
“Tintwhistle and the Bulls Head. Why?”
Dabi 1 Bitominge City 1
Dabi are another club with a great past and a shit present. Like many teams who spent heavily on a new stadium, they somehow forgot to save a little for the players’ kitty. You have to feel sorry for the faithful masses—and there are a lot of them—who turn up week in week out to watch on this absolute dross showing.
Although Bitominge walked away with their unbeaten away record intact, they could also ask themselves why they didn’t win. The Blues took the lead t
hrough Quincy MD after he sliced his way down the pitch, laying it to Enter McDragon on the right who shimmied and shammied before clipping a searching ball back inside the danger area for the doctor to be on call to slice a scalpel through the rams haggis for first blood.
One up, and time to sit back and hold on to what you’ve got. The midfield worked hard and mopped up all the loose balls that were thrown at the defence, and the Blues hung on until the eighty-seventh minute, when they thought they were home and dry with all three points. Dabi pressed and forced the Blues into giving away an unnecessary free kick and, bingo, substitute The Candyman popped up to score the equalizer.
Bullion was unfazed by not taking all the points from the game as the Blues were in an automatic promotion position. He was still, however, peeved with Ingot, especially as he ignored his phone calls for two hours while he was having a great time and his Boss wasn’t on the Pennines. Getting drunk wasn’t the first prerequisite Bullion looked for in a chauffeur, even if he wasn’t driving at the time. Common courtesy was standard par for the course for an employee to an employer, as far as Bullion was concerned, and if you couldn’t do that, then you didn’t need to be on the payroll. However, David Bullion and Ingot Pennyweight were long past the boundaries of personal emotions in this work relationship. With Ingot as empirical counsel to all his business decisions, Bullion was at a bind to know how to punish him.
They drove home together in silence.
Bullion plugged his Ipud into the music system and put his earphones on for total solitude and settled in for the night as he listened to his favorite country and western tracks.
Ingot drove like Mad Max in Behind the Asteria dome until he hit his favorite kebab shop in the East End two hours later. The Shush Kebab House had a tidy line outside for a Tuesday night. Business must be good, he thought, or the new faithful had found out the food was. He wound down the partition window between himself and Bullion.
“Do you want to eat, Boss?” he asked.
Bullion stared at him and then finished singing as he looked out the window. “Stand By Your Man.” If Bullion didn’t want to eat, he certainly did and was going to. Bullion pulled his headphones off and asked what Ingot thought he was doing.
“Why have we stopped?”
“I’m eating, Boss.” answered Ingot.
Bullion was in shock with this affront. It was the first time Ingot had ever taken it upon himself to do something in his company without asking first.
“Erm… aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked Ingot.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Ingot looked at him with defiance. “I need to eat Boss. I’ve made good time, and, if I don’t eat now, I won’t have another chance till morning, and I can’t ignore my body any longer.”
Bullion stared at him angrily.
Ingot took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them to him. “Here you’ll need these then if you want to get home right now.”
“What? I… err… you can’t do that!”
“I need to eat, Boss.”
“So you said, Ingot, but I’m not driving.”
“Then you’ll need to wait till I get some food in my belly, Boss. I’m Hank Marvin.”
Bullion chuckled at his cockney-rhyming slang.
“It’s Lee, great actor that he was.”
“Lee, Hank, it doesn’t change my feeling. I have to eat.”
Bullion rubbed his chin and realized he was peckish too.
“What is it that’s so enticing to warrant a line at this time of night?”
“Shish kebabs, Boss, good ones.”
“Shish kebabs? But it says Shush on the shop front. Which one is it?”
Ingot looked at him. “It’s shish kebabs, Boss.”
Bullion shook his head. “But it says Shush up there.”
“Why would they call the place quiet kebabs if they are good and, by the looks of that line, a fair few people seem to think so?”
“I know Boss it’s a play on words.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. Why would you do that when clearly it’s a quality product?”
Ingot shrugged his shoulders.
“I think they need a marketing executive to help them get the word out about their food. I’d take a full-page ad out in the local paper if I were them. No good being quiet is there?”
Ingot nodded. “Are you going to eat, Boss?”
Bullion sat and mulled over the question.
“Yes I think I will. I’ll have a shish and a saveloy.”
“Right Boss,” said Ingot, getting out of the car and joining the queue.
Bullion popped his headphones back on and continued singing along with another song. “Ring, ring, ring, ring of fire ring of fire.” He busied himself with watching the clientele waiting for the delights inside the takeaway shop.
“Bloody youth of today, look at them. What a mess—tattoos, piercings everywhere, unkempt hair, scruffy dirty clothes. I bet they all stink too. The dregs of society right here, and I’m eating with this riff-raff. What must I be thinking?”
He turned away and listened to his music and comforted himself on the knowledge he hadn’t given Ingot any money for his order.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SIAN HYDREF
October was a depressing month for Bullion. The snail racing was finished for another season, the capricorn beetles were in hibernation mode, and the weather was changing—summer was over and winter was on its way. Bullion was sad and suffered from it.
Seasonal Affective Disorder is a phenomenon that affects as many as twelve percent of the UK population on a yearly basis, if you believe some data. It used to be called the winter blues and not much thought of until some progressive-thinking psychiatric association decided this baby needed taking aorta and calling it for what it was—a depressing, debilitating disorder.
Bullion woke up after twelve—a first for him. He put it down to a bad kebab and the saveloy, but he knew, as he watched his coffee brew, the curse was upon him again. He didn’t feel like facing the world, he lacked energy, and he had a massive craving for potatoes and spaghetti. Sleepily, he searched under his kitchen cabinets for his fat fryer and plugged it into the wall. He relaxed and propped his elbows on the counter and took an unexpected nap. The sizzling oil roused him.
“By Jove, I could eat a horse,” he said drowsily.
“Focus, David, you can beat this thing. Right, spag bol, chips, leeks, and salsa dip for breakfast.”
The phone rang. He ignored it and went to the fridge to get his Welsh darlings and mince meat. He busied himself with the meat, making tight, round, mouth size balls filled with diced leek.
“Oh, I can get the juices flowing in the morning when I want.”
His mood was lightening with the aromas permeating the kitchen. He uncorked a bottle of Vinho Verde and swirled his full glass, taking in the flora fruitiness through his nostrils.
“I’m going to have a right good nosh up, and no one is going to stop me!”
The phone rang. He snarled at it.
“Bloody invention. What idiot race came up with that? Why would you want to interfere with people all the time?”
His concoction was coming to a crescendo—the chips sat seasoned and drying on a napkin-lined plate, the meatballs bubbled in the rich wine marinara sauce and the spaghetti was ready for the acid test. He scooped a fork into the pot of boiling water and twirled a single strand of pasta around it and blew for several seconds before pulling it off and tossing it up into the air. It hit the ceiling and stuck there.
“Perfect, it’s done.”
He drained the contents into a sieve and stirred a pat of butter in until it disappeared.
“Right let’s do it Dave,” he said to himself.
The phone rang again. “That bloody thing again. Right, that’s it. I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.”
“Hello?” he screamed.
“Mr. Bullion.”
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m from the National Security Alarm Company. We are in the area and doing free state-of-the-art laser alarm installations.”
“Free?”
“Yes, free. Isn’t that great?”
“It must be my lucky day. Do you de-install existing alarm systems free?”
“I would have to check with my manager, but our laser system will be installed for free.”
“And you monitor the whole property for free and the system is free?”
“No, the monitoring of the property is only ninety-nine pounds a month on a thirty-six month contract. It’s great value, as the system itself, without the installation cost, is 3600 pounds. So you are getting the system for free.”
“Free is free—not 3600 pounds.”
“Well, the installation is free and the cost of the system is free. You only have to pay a nominal ninety-nine pounds a month to monitor your premises around the clock, twenty-four hours a day. Isn’t peace of mind worth that?”
“Not really, no.”
“And why is that, Mr. Bullion?”
“Because peace of mind is free, and your system isn’t free, is it?”
“Well, the value of the system and the installation are. Mr. Bullion, we live in an age where break-ins and burglaries are increasing at a record rate. Did you know a home is burgled every thirty-seven seconds somewhere in Britain? Every year there are over one million burglaries or attempted burglaries. Twenty percent of households experience more than one incident a year. A free state-of-the-art laser alarm system would give you peace of mind and comfort knowing you were protected, wouldn’t it?”
“No, not really. If it was completely free, then that would give me peace of mind.”
“I think you’re missing the point Mr. Bullion, this is about your safety. What price is that worth?”
“I think you’re missing a screw. I already have an alarm system, and it’s a third less a month than what you’re offering. If yours was free monitoring, then I’d be interested, but its not, is it?”
“Well, we have to man the system and that is an on-going cost for all security companies.”
“That’s not my concern, is it? Do you know what my concern is right now?”
“An existing security contract?”
“No, my slap-up breakfast that is going cold, listening to your drivel. Thank you and good day. Don’t call again unless everything is free. Goodbye.”
Football Fiction Page 11
