by Ryder, H
There’s a messy spread of shiny hair everywhere like a firework around her head. Liza rubs her hands together and says “dispatched this bitch” looking at Kurt, because she’s playing a scene. Swishing her ponytail too, which of course puts Kurt into a lather.
“She's going to have a massive headache in the morning” clearly in her element, “and a couple of broken ribs too I hope,” smiling wildly in amusement. “The crazy fucker thought coming at me brandishing a bread knife would intimidate…me!” Crazy bitch I think, meaning Liza, you wouldn’t know to look at her, she’s weeny, and she's wearing a boob tube as always, a stylish arse-kicker. And before you ask, yes she can do a sitting trot happily in a strapless bra, that's how good her seat is. She's tough.
“Super serration batman,” I say happy at my cartoon reference. Liza chuckles at this and I am so happy she came with us on this trip, Kurt is too, I can see it in his face, like a cold slap in the face, yep, it’s the same look.
“Let’s tie her up” I say decisively, and secretly always thought she deserved being tied up sitting on a cold floor, you know the type don’t you? Really I don’t know what else to do. "Knots first, then tea” I love the new plan, just like the Brownies.
Liza rubs her hands together eye to eye with the one man in the room it was designed to impress, Kurt, “but she picked on the wrong girl,” she shouts at the body lying on the floor and kicks a very large shiny blade away across the orange tiled floor, it spins as it flies. She unties her ponytail with a flourish and flicks her blonde hair like a shampoo advert, retying it for Kurt’s benefit, it has the desired effect, He is only now focused on her, dilated pupils, before he was smitten, but now he has fallen.
Rolling his eyes in mild amusement Daniel flips the unconscious woman over with the point of his boot to reveal the face of the would-be assailant, “Steffi!” He closes his eyes filled with loathing and disappointment “what’s going on here?” Looking at Stan for the answer.
“If my Spidey senses are correct, and they usually are, we have her boyfriend don’t we? Who here didn’t expect her to be here too?” They all look at me, a pattern no one else can see, incredible. I fill up the kettle.
“Makes sense” from Stan, “and she always was a little….” He leaves the word floating in the air unspoken, to avoid any disrespect to his boss. Daniel doesn’t mind at all.
“Stalkerish?” Not a real word, but should do, Daniel finishes Stan’s hanging phrase.
Then I realise I hadn’t told him, “she broke into my computer Daniel,” suddenly remembering some of the mails from Daniel which were certainly for my eyes only. I flick the switch and the kettle is on. “She read my emails” and that’s just rude, and left bloody hand cream all over my keyboard, that’s just disrespectful. “She was trying to find the safe I believe.” I realise out loud, “that’s what she’s was in my studio for.” I put my hands in my pockets, glad of the familiar feeing of denim on me.
I arrange cups on the worktop, in a deliberately haphazard way since Daniel is watching my every move. Daniel shakes his head disappointed, not at my disregard for order over chaos, “are those jeans safe?” Personally I quite like a little chaos, it reminds us you can’t control everything. And anyone who doesn’t believe it, hasn’t ridden a mad Trakehner on a windy day with the Essex Union Hunt galloping past, where they're not allowed to ride, with forty well-behaved hounds to heel. Another true bloody story people.
Daniel looks at me hoping I can give him a positive answer, jeans safe, people? Well none of this trip has been thus far. “They might be important” he says,”what if they’ve got hold of them already?” Clearly agitated he moves around the room like a wild cat at a zoo, I bloody hate zoos.
Taking a deep breath, “they're safe Daniel,” I say emphatically, but of course I know exactly where they are so I can sound sure.
“Positive?” Daniel places lots of emphasis on their importance.
“So long as I'm safe, they are safe, yes.” I tell him. So looking at my legs a little guiltily, I’m not sure how the news will affect the situation. ”I thought wearing them would be the safest place to keep them.” I finally say, and then everyone looks at what I’m wearing, they’re very nice jeans too. Well, I am a denim guru after all.
The kettle clicks off steamily, and I add the boiling water to the massive pot with real leaves, not tea bags, in the bottom. Daniel hugs me and kisses my hair “incredible woman.” He looks over at Kurt with a nod, “see?” He smiles a smile just for me.
It's then I decide a connection might be in order so I send a text:
TC: “How’s the book signing?” She’ll be bored to tears, hope she has her hip-flask with her.
EC: “Thank goodness for alcohol!” Must be bad.
TC: “The book is getting great reviews Mum, I read a critique of it on the plane” I’m so very proud of her, her writing is brilliant, and the illustrations all done by her too.
EC: “These people ask completely the wrong questions Catharine” of course they do.
TC: “About Lawrence?” I hope.
EC: “Kidding? They’re more interested in me, stupid, mediocre….do I need to go on?” Please no.
TC: “Can you believe it, T E Lawrence's life not interesting enough for them? And they want to know about who you're wearing?” What can you say to that?
EC: “True story” did She get that from me?
TC: “There must be some sensible enquiries?” Please let that be true.
EC: “One” and…
TC: “Surely not, don’t they want to know about the dessert or the history or Wadi Rum?” Please say yes.
EC: “And I’ve never even ridden a camel” what’s that got to do with anything? Clearly Mum has gone off on a tangent again…maybe it’s the dry sherry in her hip-flask?
TC: “Hope the book sells well, see you soon” I miss her.
EC: “I’ll send you a photo so you can remember what I look like!” She thinks she’s funny, I wonder where I get that from?
I finish my conversation with my Mum and smile at my phone, I’d really like to see her now. As I return to the present I glance over and Daniel is staring at me.
Another vibration.
T&G: “20% off haircuts this weekend” bloody hell, does everyone speak to my Mother!
Daniel is still watching me, replacing my phone in my pocket.
I add milk to the cups one by one, with fresh already opened semi-skimmed milk from the fridge. Its feels weird poking around in someone else’s home, like stealing. But it’s a tea emergency, I’m sure whoever lives here will understand. Daniel moves closer to me, and I close my eyes expecting a kiss on the head, I hear clinking and clattering as he re arranges the cups, in order alphabetically, with the handles facing toward him, equidistant apart and neat as little toy soldiers.
I’m sure in that instant his feelings for me aren't fleeting, there’s more, he wants tea too. I wonder whether he’ll ever be able to tell me, or will I be forever guessing. Then he breaks the hold with a command, suddenly looking in control, this has an interesting effect on me, firstly it turns me on, secondly I begin to feel very calm. “Tie her ankles up too Kurt” Daniel nods at Steffi’s prone body, his eyes never leaving mine, “tight.” Stan already has rope ready, he likes his jobs like I do, it’s his coping mechanism, to be physically useful.
Looking at me never breaking my gaze, yes, you can tie me up Daniel I try to telepathasise it to him, is a fleeting thought, ill-timed as usual.
“With pleasure,” answers Kurt grabbing a length of rope, “though I usually get a girls permission before I tie her up!” Says Kurt laughing. Liza swings her head toward him in amusement, but of course that's permission.
He thinks he's funny too, must be catching.
Chapter thirty-three, Monday:4thnovember2013, mine
With the two would -be assailants tied securely, remember we’ve all watched too many old Batman cartoons where they always escape, to do a poor job with our prisoners knots, we sit exhausted
in silence for a while. They are propped up against a wall sitting together, both still unconscious with very tidy impossible to escape from Boy Scout knots tied by the ex-special forces, and ex-Batman lovers. We search the house to make sure they don’t have any help with them, we probably should have done this before now, but dear reader, we didn’t, we needed tea. Satisfied that we have the situation under control we sit in the living room at high tea. Thankful and still a little in shock from what we just did, we sit in silence sipping like all that’s missing are cucumber sandwiches on a tiered plate rack with a handle. It would be a comedy moment if we didn’t have prisoners sitting in there with us. I suddenly remember seeing such a tiered plate rack in the kitchen, what is this place? And are there fondant fancies in the cupboard? Hope so.
Almost to myself as I sip hot refreshing tea “the house hasn't been slept in.” I dunk a ginger nut biscuit, “wherever these villains are based, it isn’t here.” I top up everyone’s teacups to positive murmurs all-round, “it’s immaculate.” I gesticulate with half a soggy biscuit, “the beds are made there's Jo Malone grapefruit candles everywhere,” my favourite. I buff the cushion I’m sitting against. “The washing up is all done and dry on the wooden rack drainer.” I notice practically. “It's like there were inhabitants, and they just popped out to the shops.”
Maybe they have? Wondering how far away the shops must be, and suddenly worrying there's nowhere for them to buy decent denim, well trust me.
“Biscuit anyone?” I say drinking from a bone china cup with saucer, “and they like their tea,” whoever lives here. “There’s five different blends out there in the kitchen, several teapots and matching china set,” I look down into the swirling steam that’s my tea, “no chipped mugs here.” I notice out loud.
“Ha!” From Kurt almost spitting out some tea, “Mum would be happy, she loathes mugs.” laughs Kurt, and Daniel confirms with a nod, but says nothing.
“I’ll go for a rummage in the library” adds Nigel, “you coming Dr Cartier?” Liza nods an emphatic yes, she clearly can’t wait to get her hands on a project that takes her out of the room, with live bound reminders of our welcome party slouched messily on the floor. And smelling like a wet goat.
It seems important to note here, I have never actually smelled a goat that's been out in the rain, I merely guess that it's like a wet dog, but outdoorsier.
“More tea?” I offer the pot around in mock-tea party poshness. Nodding all-round, “a level of discernment, so rare today.” Daniel giggles extending his little finger out holding his cup in a pastiche of a imagined royal, and suddenly this is the funniest scene in the world.
“This has Dad’s hand all over it you know.” Kurt says drinking deeply from his steaming cup not lifting his eyes to meet Daniels, just lifting his brows. Daniel is looking around the room nodding, exchanging the odd glance with Kurt, like close siblings who can often read each other’s thoughts. He looks comfortable here, perhaps there’s something familiar, a feeling maybe. I can sense it.
Stan comes in from the back of the house, “there’s another Landrover out there” he tells me because he knows I love Landrovers, “the source of the explosive smell.” He wipes his hands on a tea-towel, one with a Delia cupcake recipe on it. “Someone has detonated a device under it and blown it into an almost unrecognisable heap of parts” he pauses. “But Landy's are tough and their official parts are branded and numbered, and the decal endured,” as he wipes, wringing his fingers over and over, “it belonged to your family Daniel” He looks up, “I’ve had the VIN number checked.”
Daniel and Kurt pause mid slurp, paused cups mid-air, thinking, something has clicked in their heads, they are now quiet. “Yes, we know.” whispers Daniel
TC: “Awkward” are you there? Please say yes.
PF: “I’m here, what’s going on?” That was quick.
TC: “I think Liza might be falling for Daniels older Brother” can you imagine the scene around the table at Xmas?
PF: “Have to say, I’m quite enjoying my own Pearce boy right now too” shameful.
TC: “Wish I was, it’s like Pony Club Camp here without the ponies, and too many grown-ups” can you imagine?
PF: “Can't you get him alone for twenty minutes?” If only, change the subject quickly.
TC: “Where the bloody hell are you anyway?” Answer me.
PF: “Messy subject change, we’ll speak about that later, have no idea where we are, but it’s fun” glad for her.
TC: “Every detail please, when we meet” and I mean every detail.
Back in the room there’s mumbling between the brothers, Daniel finally admits, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?” He asks his Brother.
“I’m trying not to Danny.” He rolls his eyes. Silence, if you could hear brains working there’d be a room of gentle ticking noises and soft whirring, as we decrypt the puzzle. They look around the room we sit in.
“That Dad didn’t perish under that mountain,” he pauses for effect, “he escaped and lived here.” Makes sense.
Stan steps forward clearing his throat for effect, “yes, yes, to keep you all away from the harm” he says. “He knew trouble would rain down on you when you discovered what your tattoos meant.” He looks at the two boys, waiting for a reaction to this news, which Stan knew all along.
“This is unbelievable,” from Liza, emerging from the library clutching a heavily bound leather book, reading to herself. Everyone looks up at her, but it’s not her revelation they are wondering about, she's just the focal point for their thinking. She stops just as she’s about to say something and stays still and quiet.
Stan continues, “he knew you’d come searching, people want that idol,” he looks over at the bodies strung up like a joint of beef ready for roasting, I shudder at the thought. “Your Dad was protecting you.” Stan says as if that’s the end of the story nothing more to say, and goes back to checking his equipment like nothing's happened.
“From Steffi and Emilio?” Daniel looks at me questioningly because maybe I could sense the answer.
“From that family, going back years.” Adds Stan kneeling by his rucksack rummaging about in it, is he really looking for something or is it a distraction?
“It all seems so unbelievable,” adds Nigel following Liza from the neatly stuffed bookcases, he fails to sense any conversation in progress, so blasts away with his own discovery. “Such a complex series of puzzle pieces,” he says to the room in general, not looking up from the hefty volume cradled across his forearm with reverence. “What were the chances anyone would have discovered the gold idol?” He shakes his head at the text, his glasses slip to the end of his nose, pushing them back onto his face he adds “zero chance I’d say.” And finally looking up he notices all eyes on him, wondering what he is rattling about.
Sensing he has everyone’s attention finally, and making a point about good comedy he removes his glasses slowly and cleans them on his handkerchief, we now can't wait to hear what he’s going to say, that’s the art of timing, he should have been in the theatre. “This is an old family thing obviously,” he slips his glasses back on his face, blinking a few times to make sure the lenses are clear. “It all started long ago when the original discoverer of the box.” He looks back down at the book, and gently closes it up with a slight ‘poof’ sound of escaping air between the leaves. “Your ancestor Daniel” he sits down, turning his head, “and Kurt,” and next he's dunking a rich tea in his teacup.
Nigel continues, “Kurt,” he makes a point with his biscuit, “he hid the box containing the golden sacred eagle under this mountain,” he sips from his cup, makes a face because it’s luke warm by now. “But another knew where he hid it, and I expect these here,” pointing his tea at the tied bodies, “are from that family or knew the stories of that family.” He takes a large gulp of cold tea just as I offer the pot to top it up, and reaches for a biscuit, “every family has histories and secrets that are passed down.” He lifts his cup to the teapot, “oth
erwise I’d be out of a job.”
Obvious really.
Taking in what Nigel has said we all pay attention, “my family for example” Nigel says, “has a recipe for bread pudding that’s not allowed outside the family.” We all laugh nervously, but we are calm because bread pudding is very important to some people. “My Mother died with that sweet secret intact.” He smiles to himself obviously remembering his Mum, “it wasn’t even that good” he giggles.
Note to self, get Grandads’ bread pudding recipe from Mum, which really was good.
“So let me get this straight” opens up Kurt. This doesn’t sound like a bread pudding question so I endeavour to pay close attention, until I deem it boring. Then I’ll make more tea. As he slides his weight to perch on the edge of the sofa, his body language receptive and open to dialogue, “the man that came ashore with our ancestor.” He gesticulates with a roll of his hand in the air as if to demonstrate there's a long story to unfold, “he must have followed him into the mountain.” Takes a bite of a dunked ginger nut, “discovered where he hid the treasure?” Jabs the air with the final half-moon of biscuit, “and planted markers so he could find it again?” A question, not a statement.
Just then a crushing sound, and our grapefruit scented air is disturbed by the swift movement of people to the window. We hear a vehicle pulling up and stopping hard into the dirt with a skidding screech of sand and dirt in friction. Shooting a look outside we see what’s emerging from the swirl of disturbed dust, we can hear something happening, a door slamming, a shuffling and a crunching on the path outside. The door flies open and a wide, a dirty looking Spaniard strides in like he owns the place paying more attention to his phone than the room he has entered into.
Yep, I think to myself, bloody phones, they take over your life don't they? Bet it's his Mother!
“Tried calling why....?” His sentence cut off mid-flow by the sight that meets him, he’s slow to react, his eyebrows raise before his voice makes another sound.
Enter at C working trot.