“Oh bollocks!” he scowled irately at her. “They should drink less and spend less time betting on the horses.”
“Oh really?” she chuckled. “Peter goes to the track once in three months and most of them need to blow of some steam to remind them that they get to spend something of their pathetic salaries on themselves, you know.”
“Whose side are you on?” he barked, beginning to feel as if his sister was trying to tell him something sincere in the shiny wrapping of casual conversation. “I cannot pay them too much, or else they will take liberties.”
Bekka was done arguing. She whipped out her cell phone and wrote down a contact on the office message pad. “There,” she said plainly, folding the paper and handing it to him. “Alan’s number.”
“Thanks,” Tony said. “Wonder what he thinks he can sell. Have you seen his house? Sorry to say, there is nothing of value in the entire Callany household.” Without reserving a moment for a response, he left the office and went to give Court the number. “Oi, Court! Here,” he said, waiting for the old mechanic to slid out on the dolly.
“Aw, thanks mate,” Court said gratefully, treasuring the piece of paper like a €500 note between his fingers. He was hoping to soon have the real deal in his hand, along with a few siblings at that.
“Are you sure I cannot just float you an advance, mate?” Tony asked one more time.
His friend shook his head. “Ah, no, thanks Tone. I cannae be deeper in debt, when I can just get rid of some stuff and score extra bux, you understand?”
“Aye, I suppose you are right. But please, if you get stuck, swallow your pride, alright?” Tony offered.
“I will, thanks Tone,” Court replied, looking a bit more relieved with Alan’s phone number in his grasp.
After work, he drove past other pawnshops. They were all was closed, but they looked small time anyway. No more than peddlers of second-hand furniture from the Seventies and Eighties, at most. Here and there, they held someone’s grandmother’s broach or a mantle clock from Italy, but nothing as stupendous as antique rapiers and cutlasses. No, he would have to deal with Alan Silver, the local merchant of less than legally acquired items, using his run of the mill pawnshop as an honest front. Court even found the man’s name encouraging.
The problem was getting the blades out of the cupboard in the basement where he had hidden them without his family noticing. A tight knit family, the Callany’s always kept tabs on who was home at any given time. They spent almost every waking hour after work together, therefore the old mechanic knew that, once he had reported home, it would be hard to give the slip for a meeting with Alan Silver. Once he was home, it would be almost impossible to retrieve the hoard without any inquisition or curiosity on the part of his wife, daughter or grandson.
He elected to set up a meeting in the middle of the day, when Sue would be sleeping and the others off to school and work. It would afford him the chance to bring out the artifacts stolen from the Hall estate that night, and get it in the car unnoticed. Before he came home, he gave Alan a call.
“Hello, Mr. Silver?” he stammered.
“That’s me. Who is this and what do you want?” Alan asked. His tone was less assertive and more boastful, clearly a very confident man.
“My name is Court. I work for Tony Hamish,” he told Alan.
“Who?” Alan asked abruptly. Soon after, he realized why the name was familiar. “Oh!” he sang. “Bekka’s brother, hey? What about it, then?”
“Um, I got your number from Bekka. You see, I am in possession of certain items that I would like to sell and I was wondering if I could bring them to your shop tomorrow. See if we can make a deal and all,” Court suggested.
“What is it? I don’t buy just anything, you know,” he assured Court, trying to deter the stranger. It made Alan nervous when people got his private number, especially after the two-year stint in Barlinnie for fencing. “What have you got that I should bother with this time of night?”
“I have two swords…” Court started slowly, but the arrogant hawker interrupted him.
“Swords? What swords? There are hundreds of types, mate. Come on, don’t waste my time.”
“No, no listen, these are very valuable,” Court said, “and I would be able to show you tomorrow, say, at 11am?”
“Valuable swords, hey? Who told you? Did you have them appraised?” Alan fired questions at the unsuspecting novice.
“No, I cannae have them appraised, Mr. Silver,” he explained.
“Why not?” came the dreaded question. Court had no idea how to say this, let alone if he could trust the man he was telling, but if he was going to do this, he would have to grow some balls and get on with the deal.
Under his breath, he hesitantly drew the line in the sand. “These items are from the Hall collection.”
A long pause followed, so long that Court thought Alan Silver had hung up on him. Softly, he heard Alan mutter, “Jesus Christ.”
“Mr. Silver?” Court pressed. This time the merchant’s tone was far more tolerant and cooperative.
“Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, “bring the items around the back of my shop tomorrow. You know where it is, right?”
“I do, yes,” Court said, his heart skipping a beat at Silver’s sudden change of mind. For once, his day ended better than it had started.
“Just make sure the merchandise is wrapped properly when you bring it out of your car,” he advised. “I will have to make a few calls tonight, but I am sure we can come to an agreement. And Court?”
“Aye?”
“You say nothing to no-one, right?” Alan reiterated in a slightly menacing way.
“To my grave,” Court assured him, but Alan had already ended the call.
When Court got home, his demeanor was so uplifting that his family rolled their eyes at one another.
“Scored some weed again, Paps?” asked Pam, mother of his grandson.
Court laughed heartily. “Can a man not be happy to be with his family? I am just glad to be home after a shitty day. That is all.” He winked at his grandson, hoping that they would never find out what he had done.
9
A White Lie for the Greater Good
At Gracewill the next day, Nina listened to some very interesting stories from the children. Admittedly, she had begun to enjoy their company, contrary to what she initially expected. Children have always been an annoyance to her and she avoided them most of the time, but having gotten to know Miss April’s class changed her mind an inch. The old artifacts they brought in were all evidence of solid family histories, and Nina especially enjoyed those from the Second World War.
However, deep in her mind, one item still itched at her brain, one she would have liked to hear more about. She desperately wanted to have another look at it, even though she did not know much about antiques. Her forte was history, the tales of old, not so much the objects from it. Young Brian had said very little about the actual role played by the scabbard in his family, which led Nina to believe that two options came to play. Either the boy did not know where the item belonged in his family history, leaving him oblivious to its origins, or the object did not come from his heritage at all.
Perhaps, she reckoned, he had come upon it in the garage of his home when his family moved in or he picked it up on a junk heap and made up the ‘grandpa will kill me’ excuse to give it credence. According to Nina, his imagination and love for all things knightly created a perfect bubble to escape to. In every way, the scabbard looked the part, by all means, to perpetuate a fabricated myth of belonging, of heritage and heroism. Otherwise, the child’s home life was probably extremely unfulfilling and bland, she supposed.
“May I see that scabbard again, Brian?” Nina asked the young boy just before class adjourned for recess the following day.
“My granddad will kill me if it gets lost, Miss,” he reiterated, sounding a bit concerned about her request.
“I promise I will not take it anywhere. All I want t
o do is have another look at it. It looks just like those worn by princes and kings in history books,” she cajoled the impressionable boy by appealing to his fantasies. His face lit up at her comparisons and Nina knew she had him.
Miss April sat at her desk, watching the whole affair, but she did not interfere. Delighted to boast, the normally reserved boy took out the sheath and placed it on his desk. The rest of the class had since vacated the room for recess to enjoy the rare sunshine, but Brian was fine with spending his entire break in here with Nina and Miss April. After all, the alternative was being bullied and stumbling around the playground all by himself, watching firm friendships of other kids mock his self-worth.
Nina looked at the beaming child as he delivered the item. It fascinated her how his bright blue eyes collected several contrary traits. Full of promise and deep in thought while similarly, sad and lost, his eyes wandered across her entire face every time he looked at Nina, or addressed her. The historian could not help but feel a taboo attraction to the boy, not sexual by nature, but definitely amorous in a way. Had he been an adult, their connection would have been a romantic one beyond doubt.
Brian looked at Nina like Sam did. He regarded her in silent wonder and loyalty, and whenever she chose to reluctantly allow the consequent feeling, it mutated into a kind of romantic kindred energy. His stare was far beyond his age, but his innocence kept it lost at sea.
“Has your grandfather ever had this piece appraised?” she asked, once again mesmerized by the intricate engraving in the worn and tarnished leather. Immediately Nina realized that she was speaking to a child from the mean streets of Glasgow, and that he would not know about appraisals and things like that. “Um, I mean, has he ever taken it to someone to see what it was worth?”
“No, Miss Nina,” Brian replied quickly, for fear that she would suggest such a thing and inadvertently out his secret taking of the scabbard.
“He really should,” she muttered, examining the stitching. “This was done by hand, but the thread looks so authentic, it has to be a fake.”
Miss April perked up. She came to have a look. “Why a fake?”
“Look, I am no expert, but if something hand-stitched can survive as long as what I reckon the age of this leather is, it has to be a fake, right? Surely it cannot have stayed intact over centuries like the sheath itself has?”
“You never know,” Miss April guessed. “Some materials were probably treated with different substances to adhere to the kind of uses it would be made for?”
Nina nodded in agreement. “This here,” she pointed to a silvery sheen woven in to the stitching twine, “is something real peculiar. Do you see the shiny stuff?”
“Aye,” replied both Miss April and young Brian. It cheered Nina to see the child respond to the curiosity of the item. Such small responses denoted the desired interest she was trying to cultivate in these children.
“What could it be?” she wondered out loud.
“Decoration?” Miss April guessed.
“For a sheath used in war?” Nina conjectured with her hands in her sides and her brow fashioning a deep frown. “Why would it have esthetic value? I mean, even the attempt at ornate patterns came out askew and all over the place. Hardly a visually appealing sheath worn by some king or warlord, wouldn’t you say?”
“I know, but who knows. Maybe it used to be prettier. I mean, we all age and eventually we all look tarnished,” Miss April jested.
Nina chuckled, and took out her cell phone. “Listen, Brian, can I take some pictures of the sheath? I just want to show a friend of mine. He loves antiques.”
“My grandpa will never sell it, Miss,” Brian quickly protested. He was young, but he knew what happened when pictures surfaced on the internet. Soon he would have to explain to his grandfather how the scabbard came into his possession and how he thought he was permitted to take something that did not belong to him. “I cannot let you take pictures of it, Miss. Please.”
“What is wrong, Brian?” Miss April asked, seeing the boy’s distress as more than just rebellion. “Would your grandfather do something bad to you if you borrowed it?”
Nina’s lips were ajar as she waited for an answer. The thought had not crossed her mind, but since Miss April mentioned it, it became quite obvious.
“Callany!” Miss April persisted.
The boy looked distraught. “Yes, Miss. I thought I would get it back before he noticed it was gone, otherwise I will get caned for sure.” He looked up at the two women in pleading. “But I did not mean to steal it or anything! I did not have anything else to show, is all!”
Nina rubbed his upper back to comfort him. “Not to worry, Brian. I will not take any pictures, alright? Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks, Miss Nina,” he sniffed, genuinely spooked. “Can I go now?”
“Aye, off you go,” Nina said reassuringly.
Miss April folded her arms and with a gentle, but firm tone, she said, “Put it back in your desk and take it home after school today. We do not want your grandfather to cane you if he finds out. And Brian, do not bring things to school again without permission, do you understand?”
“Aye, Miss April,” he nodded gratefully.
When Brian left the classroom, Nina snuck over to his desk and took a few snapshots.
“Wow! Remind me never to trust your word, Dr. Gould,” Miss April said. Her judgement carried the tone of admiration, not skepticism. A tiny crack of a smile painted her face as Nina quietly closed the desk lid and stole back to her own seat to put away her phone.
“What, you have never told a white lie for the greater good?” she lifted an eyebrow and grinned.
Miss April’s deep-set eyes shimmered gleefully as she confessed. “Oh, my dear, more times than I care to count.”
10
Quagmire
At 9.45 a.m. sharp, Court Callany developed mild symptoms of acute appendicitis. Tony Hamish and his sister, Bekka, offered to call the ambulance or drive poor Court to the hospital, but he assured them he could drive the eight minutes to New Victoria.
“I will be fine,” he winced convincingly. “Probably nothing, but I had this once before, so I just want to make sure it is nothing serious. I will probably be back at work tomorrow, Tone. Please, don’t worry, alright?”
Bekka looked very concerned, chewing rapidly on the purple gum she permanently hosted between her jaws. “Are you sure, Court? I can drive you, love. No problem.”
“No, no,” he smiled faintly, as sick people often do, “I can get there just fine, Bekka. Thanks.”
“Well, call us when you know what is going on,” Tony requested, walking Court to his car. “If you need a day or two off, we can work out something. Just get checked out and let us know.”
“Appreciate it, mate,” Court replied. As he drove off, he saw Tony and Bekka grow smaller in his rear view mirror. Miraculously he appeared to be feeling better as he progressed, driving closer to home. “Remind me to buy you a big bottle of whiskey for being so accommodating, Tone,” Court smiled, “when I get rich overnight.”
The morning sun was dwindling over Glasgow, as if the heavens got a taste of Court’s skullduggery. As his car neared his home, he leaned forward and raised himself over the steering wheel to see if anyone was home before parking in his driveway. From where he stopped, the coast was clear. Still, he elected to be quiet, just in case Sue was awake. She usually took her sleep meds at nine and slept until Pam came home from work at one, but his wife was an impulsive creature. Not someone to set one’s watch to.
He clicked the lock of his car door shut as gently as he could. For once, the noisy cars passing in the street and dogs barking at pedestrians came as a godsend. The noises masked his stealth approach in opening the front door without detection. Slowly, Court traversed the living room and kitchen, down the corridor to see if Sue was asleep. To avoid her seeing him, he waited right outside their bedroom to listen for any telltale signs, but was happy to hear her light snoring.
As a precautionary measure, Court was the only member of the family allowed to go down there. Never had the rule been so convenient, because this was where he safely stashed the items he had burgled from the Hall estate. That very burglary that cost Paul from the Pub his life. Court was so desperate for money that he felt less and less guilty about the way in which things turned out that night.
Besides, Rufus Hall was a murderer in his own right, clubbing the housekeeper to death when he discovered her part in the invasion. Both men who died were bad people, Court asserted. Even the dead accomplice was some sort of criminal for helping organize the burglary, right? No real losses to the world, then, he figured.
His nostrils threatened to blow as the dusty, moldy atmosphere oppressed his lungs. The smell of mud and decay permeated through the entire stretch of darkness that enveloped Court. His torch was the only light, apart from the ventilation holes covered with mesh that barely helped him see. Atop an old oil heater, Court found his hoard, wrapped in tarp. He collected the bundle and opened it to evaluate his impending sale. While pinching the flashlight between his thighs, he quickly wiped his perspiring brow and grabbed a dirty rag to give the items a slapdash polishing.
Court scowled. He remembered something bigger than the stuff he had accumulated. It was hard to put his finger on it exactly, but something was missing. Over and over he murmured his inventory. “Two cutlasses, one spear and a bendy knife. Two cutlasses, one spear and a bendy knife,” he whispered, trying to remember what else there was. “There was more. There was…more.” Between his looming appointment and his sleeping spouse, Court could not focus enough to recall what he was missing. In vain, he attempted to remember the events of that night in order to retrieve the information he was seeking. Nothing came, until the reeling movie in his memory came to the part where he ran like a man on fire to flee the scene.
Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8 Page 25