by Graham Hamer
“I'd say he's either caught a dose of religion or he's lost his marbles.”
“Neither,” Sean said, rummaging in the tin for another smoked salmon and mayonnaise sandwich. “He caught a dose of my tongue.”
“What do you mean? Tweedle isn't one to be talked into anything he doesn't want to do.”
“Ah, I didn't say he wanted to do it, miboy, but maybe he felt he had no choice. You see, I employ lots of people. Most of them are good lads but a few are scallywags, and I have to say that most of the scallywags work for me. So I ask a few questions, I get a few answers and I find a little skeleton in Tweedle's cupboard off George Riley. George supplies Tweedle with certain banned substances that the Manx Constabulary would be well pleased to know about.”
“What, you mean Tweedle takes drugs?”
“No, no. I didn't say that. In fact I don't think he does, but I think he supplies them for someone else. It’s more than likely a little paying sideline that he and that obnoxious accountant of his are involved in. So anyway, when I advised our Mister Tweedle that my friends in the law enforcement business would be made aware of his shenanigans if he didn't rectify the situation at your home, he didn't put up too much argument.”
Ian's eyes fixed on the old grey seal, sunning itself on the stony beach. “Jesus, that's a relief. So he agreed to you buying the stock and equipment then?”
“Sure an' I didn't bother asking him. If he's not in a position to blackmail you, you're free to do what you want with them. I'd love to be at Headland View tomorrow when you get the men to take everything away and bring it down to my place. With a bit of luck he won't even be there and he'll walk on site later in the day and find it all gone. I see all your bricks and blocks are on palettes, so I'll send up a forklift on the back of a flatbed truck, speed the operation up a bit. And bring everything, Ian, even the things I can't use. I think some of my Irish friends might give you a few bob for the other stuff. So what do you think?”
Ian continued watching the seal, though his eyes weren't focused. The seal stared back, waiting for his answer. Ian cudgelled his brains for the right words. If he'd been given time, they would have come to him. They came to him hours later but were never said. “I can't believe what you've pulled off,” he said. “Why are you doing all this, Sean? “
“You shouldn't need to ask, miboy. Apart from the two of us being old diving buddies, it's helping me too. I can get my work done at cost price. Even if I lose a bit on the equipment, I'll make an overall gain.” He paused and allowed a Kilkenny smile to spread across his whole face. “Oh, and there's just one other thing,” he said, adding a “miboy” for good measure. “All this depends on you running the contract for me. I'll pay you whatever the going rate is then, when all the building work's complete, there's a special job waiting for you back at Three Leggs, decent salary and a bit of travel. What do you say? Is it a deal?”
The last thundercloud in Ian's head dissolved. The job offer, like the rest of Sean's rescue package, was unexpected. But its arrival opened a door that Ian didn't hesitate to walk through. “Sean — I just can't believe this — I'm — I'm lost for words. In one stroke, you've offered me a future, shot Tweedle up the arse, and saved Nancy and me thirty-three grand.”
“Fifty-one,” Sean said, finding another smoked salmon sandwich.
“Thirty-three. Twenty-three for the materials and ten for the equipment.”
“Plus eighteen thousand for the work that's already been done at the factory. The footings are all in so if my memory serves me right there's an eighteen thousand pound stage payment due.”
“I can't expect you to pay for that. What with the company going bust on you.”
Sean bit off a mouthful of the sandwich, leaving little but the crust between his fingers. His words were soft-pedalled between brown bread and smoked salmon. “Ian, if I had to start all over again and find myself another builder, I wouldn't have paid it. It would have cost me more than that in lost time and aggravation.” He swallowed and the voice regained its Irish melody. “But, since all that will have happened is that your blokes will have taken a few days off from my site, there's no reason for me not to pay. I don't believe in giving money away, but fair's fair and the debt will be settled.”
“But we don't have any men. They all work for Tweedle now.”
“And you think they wouldn't jump at the chance of working with you again, even if it is only a nine month contract? Pick the men you want, miboy, and offer them the same money working for me. We're just about to go into business for a few months as builders.”
Ian found the last salmon and mayonnaise sandwich and offered it to the Irishman. “I just can't believe what's happening. Five minutes ago, my life was a total mess. Now it's — well, just bloody untidy.”
Sean accepted the sandwich. “I think we're doing each other a favour,” he said, with a wide smile. “I know it doesn't answer all your problems, but at least it helps. Listen, if you've got your personal liabilities down to less than a hundred and thirty-five thousand, why don't you take an additional mortgage out on your house? I'd be glad to lend you the money myself, if it's any help.”
The seal eased itself back into the water and disappeared below the swell.
“That's very kind of you,” Ian said, an obstinate thundercloud crawling back into his head. “But I have the feeling that we're going to be selling the house soon anyway. Nancy and I haven't been getting on too well over recent months, and this Tweedle business has put the lid on it.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, my friend,” Sean said.
They sat for a few minutes submerged in their own thoughts, watching the water lap over the pebbles. When the biscuit tin was empty Ian broke the silence. “Sean, I know you'll think me ungrateful, you've already done so much. But is there one further favour you'd do for me?”
“Name it.”
“I had a site foreman, a friend, who had an accident —”
“If it's Dave Kelly you're talking about, he started work for me this morning. I needed someone to do light deliveries of spare parts on the island, and over to England once or twice a month.”
“But how did you know about him?”
“Wormald-Welch. I must say I'd have been very disappointed if you'd not mentioned him.”
Ian looked at Sean, searching for the right words. 'Thank you' didn't seem enough. 'Thank you' wasn't enough. “I don't know where to start,” he said. “I'm gobsmacked. I just don't know what to say.”
“Well you can start by leaving me some bloody salmon and mayonnaise sandwiches next time we go diving,” Sean said, with a satisfied smile.
PART TWO
WEDNESDAY 11 DECEMBER
Despite early trepidation, Ian's fortieth birthday turned out to be one of the best and the most satisfying by far. It had been one of those bright, calm, December days, when the air is sharp and fresh and the sun whispers its way unhindered across a clear, blue sky. Denise, dressed in a long, white gown, had clung to his arm as they'd entered the church to the echo of Mendelssohn's Bridal March.
Though it was unusual for the bridegroom's father to give away the bride, Denise had insisted and Ian had been more than happy to oblige. When the vicar had asked if she took this man to be her lawful, wedded husband, to have and to hold, Denise had responded, “I do,” in a voice as clear as a bell, and the former Mrs. Gidman had borrowed William Wormald-Welch's handkerchief, to wipe away a tear.
The new living arrangements had caused some head-scratching when Ann, at the Pilgrims Reach, had asked who would be sitting next to whom, so that she could put place names on the two long tables in the dining room. In the end, Nancy had been placed between Pete and William, and Ian had sat next to Denise. From time to time, he had glanced past the happy couple, to where his ex-wife and her solicitor friend seemed to be enjoying the occasion, and their own company, and he had shuffled on his chair.
When it became obvious that he was staring vacantly, chewing his lip, the curvaceous Suzy
had replenished his wine glass and run her finger across the back of his neck. “Don't worry,” she'd whispered. “there's nothing to stop you from enjoying yourself as well, you know.” As she had continued her task, moving along to the other guests, she had caught his eye and winked. It had been the ego boost he'd needed. Maybe it was time to ignore Nancy and William. And maybe it was time to allow himself a little fun and start putting his life back together.
After the formal meal, Ann, like a mother duck, had ushered the twenty or so guests into the warm glow of the bar, so that she and her staff could lay out the buffet for the full compliment of evening guests, who would soon begin to arrive. Dave and Irene, sensing Ian's discomfort, had made a point of joining him for a drink, and Irene had twisted his arm to join them for dinner on Christmas day. It hadn't taken much persuading; he'd been dreading the idea of spending the festive season alone. Little by little his mood had improved as the brandy, served by the smiling Suzy, had chased away his mawkish thoughts.
Sean's arrival had caused an uproar. To save Dave from driving back into town, he'd previously offered to collect the diminutive Aunt Kate and bring her with him to the celebration. When the pair had appeared in the doorway Dave had spluttered into his beer. The sight of a six foot six, sixteen stone Irishman, being led into the room by a four foot nothing ageing spinster, was — well it just was.
“Put him down, Aunt Kate,” he'd shouted. “You don't know where he's been.”
“You're sacked, Mr Kelly,” Sean had called back, with a huge Irish smile in his eyes. “Unless you get us both a drink. I believe Mrs. Qualtrough might enjoy a gin and tonic.”
As Ian and his son had drunk a toast to Richard Tweedle's ill health, Pete had divulged the news that Ian didn't want to hear. It seemed that it was Frank whose health was in question. Richard, on the other hand, was not only in fine form, but had good reason to celebrate. William had told Nancy, who had told Pete, who now told his father, that a certain Jack Tweedle had died, leaving a large portion of his very considerable wealth to his two sons. Richard, it seemed, was disgruntled that they hadn't been given the whole fortune and was challenging the will, but had nonetheless celebrated the occasion by replacing his rusty Nissan with a brand new top of the range Jaguar.
As Pete moved away to mingle with the other guests who were now filling the room, he had called over his shoulder. “Never mind, Dad, he'll get his come-uppance one day; him and his big bloody Jag.”
Ian stared into his brandy glass for a moment, smiled to himself then excused himself from the bar, telling Suzy that he'd be back after he'd taken a breath of fresh air. Suzy had been surprised. After all, she'd just adjusted the volume on the Paul Nicholas tape, 'Don't Wanna Go Home Alone'. It was the same tape that she'd played a year before, and several times since.
There had been a couple of light showers during the late afternoon, which made the air moist and fresh, suiting Ian's purpose. He slid into the driving seat of his car, leaving the window open to reduce the mellowing effects of the brandy.
As he coasted down the hill towards Douglas, the gentle salted breeze herded remnants of the fug from his brain. He glanced at his watch - seven o'clock. The flat that he now called home was in a small square, off the steep hill that rose from the centre of the promenade, and it took him less than two minutes to enter the building, find what he wanted, and leave again to make his way to Tweedle's house.
Easing out of the car, he closed the door with care, timing the final push to the antiphonal bark of two dogs in the distance. Even so, the dull, muffled click sounded treacherous. He froze and looked around. Satisfied that he'd not been discovered, he crept towards the shadows.
The air was even fresher now and, through the mists of his own winter breath, the Tweedle residence loomed against the night sky. From time to time, a cloud stole across the face of the moon, casting even darker shadows over the house. The band of tall trees that grew behind the front wall offered him perfect cover, as he watched the building for any sign of movement. Tweedle's living room was illuminated, casting a large rectangle of light onto the lawn through the uncurtained windows. But it was plenty dark enough for Ian's clandestine needs, even after the clouds had released the gibbous moon. Sure enough, close to the entrance door, where a piece of cardboard patched a broken pane of glass, a gleaming blue Jaguar displayed its sleek lines, sneering at the old dented van alongside.
Stepping from the shadows of the trees, Ian moved towards the building, watching for any signs of movement and listening - always listening. He crossed Tweedle's lawn and approached the gleaming new Jaguar brandishing the large screwdriver he had retrieved from his home. In less than one minute, deep gouges in the bodywork spelled out the word 'THIEF' in letters two feet high. There was even an exclamation mark at the end.
Way to go.
As he sped along the quiet road to rejoin the wedding reception, he searched for a particular tape in the console between the seats. Tweedle had cost him everything he'd ever worked for and a vandalised motor was hardly recompense for the anger, anxiety, frustration and bitterness of the last seven months. Though David may not have slain Goliath, he had at least bitten his kneecaps.
He turned the cassette player on high volume. Phil Collin's drums thundered through the Audi. I can feel it coming in the air tonight —
Time to go and see what Suzy's got to say for herself.
PART THREE
SATURDAY 24 MAY
Ian had already spent the first week of May at Three Leggs' European distribution depot in the suburbs of Paris, helping Alain Abattu, the new manager, to update the systems and procedures and figure out more efficient ways to run the business. Now, three weeks after his first visit, as the Eurostar began to slow for its final destination at Gare du Nord, he was savouring the thought of implementing the proposals that Sean had rubber-stamped.
As the train passed under the Péripherique ring road at Porte de la Chapelle, he wondered how soon he would be able to make contact with Claire. At the time of his previous visit she'd been attending a conference in America. Perhaps, this time, they could meet up and have a few days out somewhere. He whispered to himself, “Tu as des yeux tellement pénétrants. - Tu as des yeux tellement pénétrants.” trying to perfect his pronunciation. It seemed easier to say 'You have such penetrating eyes' in English but, having messed around during French lessons at school, he now needed to improve his language skills.
A year earlier, during their day together exploring the island, he had enjoyed Claire's flirtatious comments and looks more than he'd been willing to admit. There was something very buoyant about her. She had the ability to see people as they really were, not as they chose to display themselves to others. She was unconcerned with her own tiny blemishes of character - her tardiness and her verbal impetuosity - making no attempt to correct them, just happy to accept that she was what she was.
“Tu es comme tu es.” That was an easy one to pronounce. “You are what you are.” It was what she had said to him as they had looked across a small deserted harbour during their 'mystery tour'. “I feel relaxed and comfortable with you, because you are what you are,” she had said. And Ian had not forgotten it.
Philippe greeted him at the station and led the way into the warm mid-May evening, towards his parked car. The bright neon lights of the Hippopotamus Restaurant opposite the station were garish and startling in the early evening dusk - yet at ease with the neighbouring lights of the brasserie, the pharmacie and the tabac. Businessmen were meeting at the bars for a large glass of insomnia before going home to their wives and falling asleep in front of the television. Those with no families to go home to slid through the curtained entrance of the sex shop, whilst late shoppers queued to collect their freshly baked and still warm baguettes from the boulangerie next door. The noisy bustle of Parisian traffic filled the air, as six lanes of cars battled for four lanes of road, and Ian was filled with admiration for his friend, who held up one hand and strolled in front of a stampede of tax
is. Philippe seemed impervious to the blaring horns and the shouts of abuse, as Ian scurried to keep up.
As they jumped the red lights on Boulevard de Magenta, and took a prohibited left turn into Boulevard Rochechouart, Philippe grinned at him. “How do you like French traffic?”
Ian braked with his heels on the car floor, missing the comfort of a steering wheel on the right hand side. “The Isle of Man's a bit more - shit, lookout! - a bit more peaceful, I must admit.”
“You'll get used to it. Don't worry; we'll be out of the worst of the traffic in quarter of an hour. Tell me, what's new for you?”
“Quite a lot,” Ian said, wiping the perspiration from his top lip. “I've got the next few weeks here, and then I'm off to Kuwait for two months.”
Philippe glanced at him, clipping the wing mirror of a parked car as he did so. “Kuwait? Whatever are you going to be doing in Kuwait?”
“Work! It seems that the Kuwaitis hold big stocks of equipment, which they only pay for when it's sold. A lot of it is now out of date and Sean wants to reduce his capital investment over there. He's dubious about sending out new stock until some of the older stuff has been sold and paid for. I've never been to the Middle East before, and I'm quite looking forward to a spell of grumpy camels and spice-filled souks.”
“And young girls with moustaches.”.
“Apart from that, Sean told me that, depending on my success with these two projects, here and in Kuwait, I can look forward to promotion and a pay rise. He's planning to start taking things easy so he’ll want someone to manage the business while he's away.”
“Good for you. You need a bit of luck after that episode with whatsisname.”
“Tweedle,” Ian said. “Richard bloody Tweedle, the asshole who cost me my livelihood, my home, my marriage and left me with a mountain of debt.”
They drove in silence as the Tweedle legacy poisoned the air. Ahead lay the huge floodlit edifice of the Arc de Triomphe and Philippe swung right, down Avenue de la Grande Armée, avoiding the almost stationary logjam around the monument. As they reached the Palais de Congrès he dodged onto the Péripherique. “That's the worst bit out of the way,” he said, still driving furiously through four lanes of traffic. We should be at mine in about fifteen minutes.”