by Tommy Dakar
him to fuck off. But Bro just looked perplexed and apologetic.
‘Sorry?’
‘Conspiracy theories abound, inferred or otherwise, yet surely the bat of a butterfly’s wings...?’
Bro smiled, then looked down at his shoes. He was out of his depth, and wondered why this man of wisdom had ever bothered to strike up a conversation with him. There was something about the bald head, the goatee beard, the round glasses that rang a bell but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Either way this Mr. Dodd was far too clever for him.
Spotty realised he had gone too far.
‘All right, I’ll spell it out for you. What the fuck happened? Can you tell me that? What the hell is a guy like you doing in here? Did you do it, or did you get screwed?’
That didn’t seem to help much either, possibly too many questions too fast. This was going to take some time. Luckily that was something they had plenty of.
Over the next few years Bro told his story as best he could. It was a tale, narrated from the point of view of a worryingly neutral observer with the analytical skill and psychological insight of a child, full of blind spots and glaring contradictions. A tale of innocence and ignorance. He rested blame only at his own door, either unable or unwilling to suggest that a third party might also bear some portion of responsibility for what happened to him. The first time he mentioned the incident at the Golden Nugget and his showdown with Alex Cummings, he gave the impression that he had made a mistake by quitting his job. It had been arrogance and anger on his part. He should have just got on with it, he now realised. Live and learn, he concluded. That drove Spotty into a fury.
‘Jesus! Yeah, you should have stayed and cleaned up that bastard’s mess. He probably got into big trouble with the bosses ‘cos of you over that. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Ambrose nodded. Irony was not the best approach.
‘You’re a fool, Bro, a real bona fide fucking idiot. You did the right thing! For once you did it like it’s supposed to be done. Stuff your fucking job, and stuff the fucking chickens. Best thing you ever done.’
He looked at Ambrose, whose ears were burning red hot.
‘You got to stand up to the bastards or they’ll just walk all over you. You did the right thing there. Who told you it was wrong? Your sister? Your mates? The fucking neighbours?’
It was despairing at times all this counselling.
‘Remember this, Bro. You did the right thing, you stood up for yourself. If you’d done that more often you wouldn’t be here today. Got that?’
Why was he doing this? What need did he have to take a moron like Ambrose Ork under his wing? Ork the dork. What was the point of going back over his history and pointing out the errors? What could be gained by showing the man exactly where and when he had made a mess of his life? Was this altruism? Or was it more like self analysis? Questions he asked himself over and over again.
In the meantime he heard about the Wiggins, good old Jack and Sally and the never-to-be bakery, the traumatic eviction from the family home, the dirty jobs at the docks and about how Bro had wanted to marry a girl called Annette, but she broke his heart by suddenly running off without so much as a goodbye. She just jilted him, just like that. Some things were so difficult to understand. Eventually the tale led them to Haute House. That was when the curse had begun.
‘Curse?’
‘Yes, Pet’s convinced that there is a curse on that place. It has been touched, what does she say, touched by the hand, or the wand, something like that, of doom. I can’t remember, something about death anyway.’
Spotty burst into laughter. Some heads turned at the other tables to see what was so funny. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, which made Ambrose laugh too through pure contagiousness. Little by little Spotty composed himself.
‘Do you believe that too, Bro? Eh? Incantations, spirits, haunted houses? Poltergeist, extra sensorial phenomena?’
By now Ambrose had learnt to simply ignore the bits he didn’t understand.
‘I don’t know, but there were a lot of deaths, it’s true. Sydney, then Mrs. Haute, then..... I leave it to Pet, she’s the expert.’
‘Clare fucking Voyance. Expert? Expert in what, reading your palm, or your fucking tea leaves? She didn’t see that Harvey coming, did she, or those fucking Wiggins come to that? Curse my arse. You’re the dumb fucking curse!’
He stormed off, leaving Ambrose with alone with a silly smile on his face. He had these sudden mood changes every so often, and they always took Bro by surprise. In that respect Spotty was much like Harvey, he noticed. How could people be so intelligent one minute, then act like spoilt brats the next?
They made amends later. Spotty realised he had offended Bro by offending his sister. It was fine to rant at Bro, but his sister should be respected, it was only right. Spotty agreed. Sorry. The final blow, the one about Ambrose being the curse, being dumb, was not even considered an insult as Bro was immune to that kind of thing. Anyway, they were friends.
Friendship is a relative term, especially in forced situations like prison, the workplace, the army. Spotty was a popular, worldwise man who spent most of his time in the gym, or smoking with his card playing group, or reading in the library. To him Ambrose was a distraction, a pastime, a point of anthropological interest. It was true that he had developed a certain soft spot for the man, though he suspected that that was not down to true affection but to a sense of pity. He would defend him against abuse, though abuse him himself every so often. He would ignore him for days then demand his immediate presence. He would glean information out of him only to throw it all back into his face in disgust. They were not friends; they were cellmates, fellow inmates, colleagues in calamity.
Ambrose saw it differently. To him Mr. Dodd, good old Spotty, was his best and dearest friend; he was the only man who had taken interest in him and his sad tale. Spotty was as near a genius as any man he had ever met, and that a man of such intellectual power should decide to spend so much time with him was... beyond words. He would be eternally grateful.
Not only that. Spotty had at last opened Ambrose’s eyes to the truth. The man had listened, and asked pertinent questions, he had gone over and over it again, studying every minor detail. Not only the facts, like they did at the trial, but the ins and outs, the looks, the things they said and the things they did. And why they did them. Spotty had laid it all open, had unravelled the mess and shown Bro what had really happened. He had been set up, by Harvey, so that Harvey could get the lion’s share while thicko Bro took the rap.
How had he been so blind? But that was not fair, as Spotty pointed out. The better question was, how could Harvey be so fucking evil? What a scheming bastard. What a cunning, conniving, sly, creepy... Little worse than the devil himself. He had as good as murdered Sydney, then, oh so cleverly planted all the right clues so that it looked as if it had been Bro, poor harmless Mr. Ork, who had been responsible for everything. Very smart, very sinister. And so far he had got away with it and was now living it up somewhere whilst they rotted in jail.
Justice had not been done, quite the contrary, and things could not just be left like that. If they did nothing, then nothing would ever change. The world would merely tick over as it always had done, and the cheats would win again. Something had to be done. Spotty pulled Ambrose into his room and ordered him to listen attentively, to look him in the eyes and concentrate. He explained that a journey of ten thousand miles begins with the first step, and after a while and a physical demonstration Ambrose was convinced. He told him about Mao, Mousey Tongue, a cross between Che Guevara and Bhudda, and about the Long March. That confused Bro, as it was intended to do, but the general idea was made. Action, Bro, action. So it was that Ambrose and Spotty planned their revenge. Ambrose would carry it out as it was his vengeance after all. Spotty would map it all out for him. Why? Well, call it revenge once removed.
Harvey was not exactly living it up. Yes, the verdict of manslaughter had meant that the child’
s inheritance had passed on to Andrea, and therefore to himself. Haute House, and the business empire that had made it possible, was now under his control. But it was a huge, empty, unfriendly place now, costly to run and impractical as a residence for just one couple. Andrea, what remained of the original woman he had married, logically loathed going back, she too said it was cursed. She preferred to hide herself at Kenton Beach, which meant that they spent more and more time apart, as he could not be absent from work for any length of time and had to stay in the city. He had a bachelor flat in town, and only visited the house to make sure it was all still ticking over, that nothing was missing, that the rooms were aired and cleaned, that the cars were polished and started up, the grounds tended to. Haute House was now reserved for ceremonies and balls, inaugurations and presentations. Occasionally it was used as a kind of hotel for important guests and clients. It was undoubtedly the jewel in the crown of his property portfolio, but also a bit of a white elephant.
No matter – life goes on. He had finally gained what he had yearned for and was now master of the whole county. He was the richest and most respected man in the area with a mansion that he could afford to use as little more than an elaborate calling card. His wealth was snowballing and his reputation going