Give The Devil His Due (19 page)

       Our hearts sank, at least mine did. I can only guess Phil, and Peach especially, were feeling similarly traumatised.

       ‘What did he say then?’ I asked.

       ‘He said that at this moment in time, there's no way he could sign.’

       There we had it. He'd made his mind up and we'd blown our chance. All the effort Peach had put in, all our hopes and dreams, and what for? A big, fat – nothing. I'd even forked out on that celebratory bottle of Cava that we'd drunk at Tegan's! I started to take the shirt off that Peachy had lent me.

       Phil wanted to know more. ‘What put him off signing?’

       ‘Mainly the fact that he's got an appointment at 9.30 with a consultant at his local hospital that he's waited five months for and he doesn't want to miss it.’

       ‘Sorry, could you elaborate please?’

       ‘He did say at this moment there was no way he could sign. But he also said if we call round the house just before midday, he'll sign it then.’

       ‘You
are
the world's biggest anus, do you know that Fairburn?’

       ‘What? You're handing over your title without putting up a fight Will?’ Neil was smirking. He'd had his fun. I don’t know whether his keeping us in suspenders was premeditated or whether it was a spur of the moment thing. It didn't matter. All that mattered was Mr Steadman had made up his mind, and reasoned in our favour.

***

When we finally signed the contract with Peter, it felt almost anticlimactic. It was as though there was a telepathic connection, at least among Neil, Phil (who was once again sitting in the car while we put pen to paper because he had already signed his part) and me, with the transmitted message being something along the lines of ‘Well that's that, where do we go from here?’.

       The initial feeling of elation that’d formerly enveloped us had worn off. During the earlier part of the morning, when Neil broke the news of Peter's pledged allegiance to our small but elite task force, we’d been miles high. Now we would have to look to our spiritual leader, the Reverend Peach, to guide us forward.

       As we drove away from the housing estates of faceless suburbia and headed in the direction of Heathrow airport for Peach to get on the Underground, it was indeed the senior archivist who decided what our next move should be.

       ‘I suggest we all meet next Friday at Phil's. The week's breathing space will give you guys a chance to make up some of the money you've lost over the last fortnight. It'll also provide me some useful time to finalise my plan for the retrieval.’

       This was good news. Neil and I needed to get some wonga in – and fast. The bills weren't going to stop arriving just because we had the go-ahead to hunt for the note.

       Peach continued. ‘We'll keep in touch on a day-to-day basis via phone and email. Now Peter knows all about this, he may not be able to keep it under wraps for very long and could end up telling someone. And that, I don't need to remind any of you, could of course spell disaster for all of us.’ Hearing this I cringed. It certainly wasn't something Neil or I needed reminding about. Peach was now pointing his index finger at us.

       ‘I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start, but take heed my dear friends; haste is our enemy and complacency its accomplice. We must boldly go, where others have already been, and
never
believe that we are masters of totality, for we are not.’

       His speech was becoming ever more rousing. Perhaps he'd been rehearsing, perhaps he hadn’t, but whichever way you looked at it, the timing was absolutely spot-on. Just as he emphasised the
for we are not
part, I pulled up outside the airport. Opening the car door he delivered the final part of his motivational address.

       ‘Goodbye gentlemen, and remember, “to the victorious: the spoils”.’

       He strode away from the car, briefcase in hand, not looking back.

       I turned to Neil. ‘Has he been doing drugs or something?’

       ‘I dunno. Don't think so, sounded to me like he’s back on the
Star Trek
books again.’

       Phil butted in. ‘When we got up this morning, I noticed the box for
Henry V
on top of the video.’

       ‘Oh that'll be it then,’ I said. ‘Peachy doesn't need our help in finding a long-lost document. He needs us to take on the fucking French at Agincourt!’

       Neil laughed. ‘You can't blame him Will; he's just enthusiastic that's all.’

       Although in his mind
King Peachy the First
was probably firmly entrenched on the battlefields of northern France. In actual fact, he was sitting on the tube slowly making his way back to central London. By contrast, I was now blasting up the M4 in the opposite direction post-haste, ready for Denise's dinner party. In my dreams!

       The reality – I was crawling at a snail's pace through roadwork contraflows. I don't know who had the most vivid imagination, Peach or me. I just had to hope things would ease up soon.

       We were in luck. As time passed, the further away from London we travelled, the traffic decreased and our speed increased, as did the excitement that was once again starting to creep back into our heads at the thought of what lay ahead in the coming days and weeks.

Chapter 14

Thursday 5 p.m. South Wales
It was late afternoon when we arrived back. Winter was definitely upon us. The dark and the cold weren't enough to revive me, I needed a shower after the long drive home. If he fancied, Neil could have one when I nipped over Tegan's to find out what time the festivities were taking place.

       Clean and refreshed I crossed the street, knocked the door and waited for an answer. A few moments later, there she stood smiling. I’d half-expected her to have a sulk on after my refusal to discuss the outcome of our initial meeting with Steadman, but her smile was an indication that she’d got over it.

       I think she must’ve realised that however keen she might be to hear every little detail that took place in pursuit of the note, it was our quest and not hers. She’d have to wait for information rather than demand it. At least that's what I hoped. I leant forward and gave her a kiss.

       ‘Has he been a good boy for you?’ I asked.

       ‘Yes, very. How was the drive back?’

       ‘Slow. I was hoping we'd have been back sooner. We could've had an afternoon on the beach with the dogs and then walked up to Denise's for dinner.’

       It was true; a generous measure of fresh sea air would've done us both a world of good. It was too dark to enjoy the beach now. We'd just have to make do with the dinner.

       ‘That reminds me. Denise said we can bring the dogs and stay over if we want?’

       ‘I shouldn't think her landlord will be happy with that.’

       It was one thing to take the dogs there for a couple of hours while we had dinner, quite another for them to stay the whole night, especially if they barked and yapped their way through it. The ultra-posh neighbours would be on the phone and Denise would not be flavour of the month.

       ‘What are you talking about? Denise's father owns the property. He's a vet, he expects her to have pets, and besides the house is going to end up being hers in the long term anyway.’ I reinstated my previous thought that vets charge too much for their services and decided to let her make the decision in whether or not to take the dogs.

       ‘Tegan it's your call.’

       ‘Yeah let's do it. We don't have to get a cab back tonight and we can take them for an early morning walk on the seashore. It'll be really romantic.’

       ‘OK. You've twisted my arm. So what time are we going over?’

       ‘As soon as you're ready, whenever that is?’

       What was this? A woman who had prepared herself to go out before us! Had the world gone mad?

       ‘Neil's just having his shower. How does twenty minutes time grab you?’

       ‘Fine’

       ‘Ok, I'll get over to mine and hurry him up a bit.’ I wandered back across the street. There was no sign of Dave. I hoped he hadn't developed mental problems over the Tegan issue. About twenty-five minutes later the three of us plus two dogs were en route
chez
Denise.

       Tegan asked, ‘So put me out of my misery. Did he sign?’

       ‘Never mind did he sign. Have you told Denise?’

       ‘No of course I haven't.’

       ‘Mmm, the jury's out on that one. As for him signing, I'm not at liberty to divulge that sort of information.’

       ‘Oh come on Will, stop being a prick.’

       ‘Bit of a tall order for him that one, I'm afraid Tegan.’ Neil’s interjection, in my view, was that of a half-wit.

       ‘Excuse me Neil! Is this a private conversation or can anyone join in?’

       ‘Anyone can join in and what's more, I think Neil is probably right there, Will.’

       ‘Oh well, if you're both going to sit here insulting me I'll definitely keep the information to myself.’

       Neil had to tell her. ‘He did sign Tegan.’

       ‘Thank you. At least someone here is decent human being.’

       Neil started to milk it. ‘I certainly am, and if I was your boyfriend I wouldn't have treated you like that, especially after you’d taken care of the dog. Some people just do not know how lucky they are!’

       ‘Yes you're right again Neil. I think I'm going to have to teach this young man a lesson he'll never forget.’ Oh dear, that sounded worrying.

       ‘And what form will this lesson take, might I ask?’

       ‘I haven't decided yet, but you'll know, when it happens, believe me,’

       She pinched my left thigh quite hard; an inch or two to the right and there would have been an opportunity for me to tell my
crushed nuts? No, laryngitis
joke. We were nearing Denise's house.

       As we arrived, I turned to Tegan. ‘You are not to discuss it in there, OK?’

       ‘Yes, so you keep telling me. Do you think I'm stupid or something?’

       ‘No, I just know what you're like.’ On that note, we all got out of the car.

       The meal was a very commendable effort from Denise. It wasn't quite up to the standard of something Peachy Craddock would have prepared, but then his cooking was exceptional. I had a sneaky feeling Denise had bought some of the grub from Marks and Spencer.

       Surprisingly, not once during the entire evening did Tegan mention the trip to London. Curiously, neither did Denise, which I found hard to comprehend, because I was certain she must’ve known we'd gone away. If I had been a betting man, I’d have wagered on there being some conspiratorial chicanery between the two of them.

***

The next morning we did the early romantic walk. The dogs were chasing each other in and out of the sea and getting in a right old state. When I got them in the car they stank. Pugs had smeared dog-dribble all over the back window and rear seat headrests. I'd have to clean the back thoroughly and give it a liberal spray of pet deodoriser before I allowed my discerning customers to enter the vehicle.

Friday 5.15 p.m. South Wales

As well as the dayshift, I would be working the night. I had to try and rack up some cash as Peach’d suggested. The day passed without incident. After a short break, I was out for the evening. It had been quiet; most people had their payday the following week. Not many arseholes but then not much business either.

       At night, the taxis would form a slow-moving queue that the punters could walk along, select the cab of their choice and make their way home. Because it wasn't an official council rank there was no rule that you had to send the fare to the first car. If someone came to your cab, you just took them (that's assuming you wanted to).

       As I pulled into town about 3.30 a.m. there were very few party-people left to pick up. If I was lucky enough to get a fare it would probably be the last one of the night. I was about four cars behind the first car in the queue, when I was approached by a bloke with ginger hair. He looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties. I wound down the passenger side window.

       ‘Can you take me to Coombe mate?’

       ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Jump in.’ This was a result. A quick twenty pounds to finish the night and I'd be home in less than half an hour. He opened the door. As he was about to get in he gave me a crucial piece of information he’d omitted during our earlier conversational exchange.

       ‘I think I should be honest with you before we set off mate. I've shat myself.’

       ‘Close the door and get away from the car,
now!
’

       ‘It's OK mate, I did it hours ago. It's dried on!’

       ‘
No!
Close the door, stop calling me mate, and get away from the car!’

       ‘I'll give you thirty quid up front.’ He showed me three crisp tenners. They looked rather inviting. I thought for a moment.

       ‘All right then, but you'll have to sit on this newspaper.’ I grabbed a copy of the
Daily Mail
that was in the driver's-door map-pocket. Someone had left it in the car earlier during the day. I spread the newspaper across the front passenger seat. The
Ginger Shitter from Coombe
got in.

       ‘Listen, I'm going to have to drive with the windows down. You're so cheesey, my nostrils are twitching.’ It wasn't a lie; the man was walking sewage. As we pulled away from the queue, the odour of human Stilton, like an almighty evil cloud, permeated every nook and cranny of the car.

       I was a prostitute.

       We made our way towards Coombe. I pressed the accelerator flat down, the motor was groaning as it worked harder than ever before. To get to Coombe we had, if truth be told, to travel up a steep incline called Crack Rise (spot the irony there)!