by Denis Byrne
‘I’m a businessman, Mr. Dawson, and at the moment I’m in the process of negotiating one of the biggest deals of my career. The contract has yet to be honoured, but I’m confident that little obstacle will be overcome in the next day or so.’
‘Just as I thought!’ Matthew replied bitterly. ‘I am being held for ransom.’ He stared straight into Myles’s eyes. ‘You’re nothing but a common kidnapper! And do you want to hear something else?’ Myles shrugged indifferently, his warm friendly smile not wavering in the slightest. ‘The authorities won’t offer you a single cent for my release.’
‘You’re a brave man, Mr. Dawson,’ Myles said. ‘Just as my years of research into your background have already revealed to me. Your courage and steadfastness are greatly to be commended. But - -’ here he hesitated for several seconds, surveying his fingernails in the manner of an actor taking a rehearsed pause for dramatic effect. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary to sacrifice such noble qualities and replace them with another which is even more potent.’
Myles looked at him quizzically. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘Or do you see yourself as some sort of half-baked philosopher as well as a criminal?’
‘Love, Mr. Dawson,’ Myles replied, unabashed at Matthew’s attempts to unsettle him. ‘The most powerful of all the emotions. It can move mountains, unite nations, make strong men weep, cause even the most heroic of individuals to alter their opinions when the safety of their nearest and dearest are in any way threatened. That, Mr. Dawson, is the reason I was aware the precaution of taking out some cast-iron insurance was necessary before undertaking this particular business venture.’
‘Is speaking in riddles another of your specialities?’ Matthew enquired, closing the book and placing it on the arm of the chair. ‘Or do you deliberately do it to sound more irritating than you already are?’
‘I think you’ll have quite a deal more respect for my rationality in time, Mr. Dawson, once you’ve learned the reasoning behind what I’ve been telling you.’
‘Which is?’
‘I want you to do something for me. As a matter of fact, I insist on it. There’s been too much stalling on the part of the authorities already. In short, Mr. Dawson, they’re beginning to stretch my patience somewhat.’
‘Good!’ Matthew said with feeling. ‘That’s the best piece of news I’ve heard since I got here. I hope they continue to cause you whatever annoyance they can. From what you’ve told me, I can see exactly what’s happening. They’re not meeting your demands as fast as you’d like them to. And I salute them for it. You see, Mr. whatever-you-call- yourself, that’s exactly how they know I’d want them to act.’ He stood up and gazed down at Myles, a look of triumph on his face. ‘In fact, I stipulated those very terms before first accepting the appointment as Governor of the Central Bank. We drew up an agreement to that effect. Under no circumstances was ransom to be paid should I ever be kidnapped. I’m an old man with a heart condition, and therefore count myself as expendable. I don’t care what happens to me.’ Matthew even went so far as to laugh quietly at the frustration he assumed his revelation would evoke in his kidnapper. ‘I’m afraid you’ve gone to all this elaborate planning for nothing.’ He resumed his seat. ‘So how do you like that, you – you unprincipled scoundrel.’
If Matthew had been expecting rage and disconcertion to express itself in the man’s face, he was disappointed. The warm smile remained intact, and the friendly eyes continued to regard Matthew as they‘d done since he’d first made his presence known to his guest. ‘I don’t think you’ve really been listening to a word I’ve said, Mr. Dawson’, he said quietly, after patiently waiting for Matthew to conclude his speech. ‘You do recall, I presume, my informing you of the insurance I’ve taken out to cover such an eventuality?’
Matthew narrowed his eyes and frowned. The man was so maddeningly serene about everything he’d heard, it made Matthew suspect that he was either a lunatic or a genius. Nothing appeared to ruffle his feathers in the slightest. Despite his own determination to also remain calm and composed, Matthew couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of uneasiness beset him.
He quickly brought it under control, calling on the vast reserves he’d acquired over the years in dealing with hard-nosed business people of every description, all of them endeavouring to gain for themselves the most advantageous terms possible, some by whatever means possible. It was akin to playing poker, and Matthew had become an expert at every facet of the game, priding himself on being able to read those he was dealing with like an open book. Every mannerism or tiny alteration of expression gave him an immediate insight into whether or not someone could be trusted to do business with. But now, for possibly the first time in his life, he was at a loss. The man seated before him gave no hint of anything other than complete composure.
‘There’s something I wish to show you, Mr. Dawson, before you do my bidding, but there’s no point in my trying to persuade you before you view the insurance policy I’ve been telling you about.’
‘I really couldn’t care less how much insurance you’ve taken out. I’ll do nothing whatsoever to help you in any way. You can do what you want with me, but I’ll never besmirch my integrity at your behest.’
‘Bravo, Mr. Dawson! I’d have expected nothing less noble from you. But as I’ve already mentioned, people’s attitudes can become less heroic as circumstances alter.’
Myles rose from his chair. He made his way towards the bookcase. There were two matching wall-lamps either side of it.
Matthew’s eyes followed him scornfully, determined to refuse to be a part of whatever proposition was about to be put to him. He wouldn’t even deign to read the documents he was sure he was going to be shown. What he’d told Myles regarding not caring what happened to him was perfectly true. They could throw him in a dungeon if they wished, torture him to within a inch of his life, and he still wouldn’t cooperate with them. People such as these were beneath contempt. He’d had a reasonably full and happy life, and was prepared to die rather then give in to their demands. And his heart condition would mercifully speed his death, if and when they started in on him.
Myles gripped the bracket of the wall-lamp on the left of the bookcase and drew it downwards. It was obviously a lever of some sort. Matthew did his best to contain his surprise, but wasn’t being entirely successful. He could almost predict what was coming next, and mentally kicked himself for not having been more thorough in his investigation of the room himself, seeing as he’d been in it for so long. He fully expected a secret passage to materialise just as soon as the lamp bracket was fully depressed. It may even have been his means of escape had he been fortunate enough to stumble upon it. But Matthew was wrong.
When Myles had completed what he was engaged in, a large panel in the wall slowly swung inwards. Matthew, in spite of himself, was fascinated. There appeared to be something the matter with the mechanism, as that part of the wall which was reversing itself came to a standstill. Half of it was jutting out into the bedroom, the other half still pointing inwards, the result being that it looked as thought someone had started the engineering process and forgotten to finish it. Shoddy workmanship, Matthew smiled to himself, secretly delighted that the man was having problems accomplishing whatever it was he was trying to do.
But Matthew’s joy was short-lived. Myles moved to the matching lamp on the right-hand side of the bookcase. He pushed its bracket upwards, completing the reversal of the wall panel. A bank of TV monitors swung into position. At an angle beneath them lay the control board. All the screens were blank. Myles fingers moved deftly over the board and brought one of the screens to life. He tuned it in before turning smilingly to Matthew. ‘I think this may interest you, Mr. Dawson,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Perhaps you’d do me the honour of studying it and letting me have your professional opinion as to its value.’
‘No thanks!’ Matthew snapped. ‘I really couldn’t care less one way or the other. And I’m certainly not going to offer
you advice, professional or otherwise!’ He plucked War and Peace from the arm of the chair, sat back, opened it, then made the pretence of resuming to read. ‘And I’d be very much obliged if you’d be so kind as to leave me to get on with my reading. I’ve really had more than enough of your preening presence already!’
‘I’m afraid I must insist, Mr Dawson.’ Myles replied calmly. ‘And I assure you, it’s in both your interests. As soon as we get this unpleasantness out of the way, the sooner your beloved granddaughter will be reunited with her parents.’
Matthew felt his throat constrict, and for the first time since he’d been abducted, real fear invaded his being. He threw the book aside and rushed over to the television monitor, his legs trembling beneath him in his anxiety to reach it. Every last ounce of defiance and resistance drained from him at what he saw. He tore his eyes away from the screen and stared at Moran in disbelief. Matthew had never felt so helpless in his life before. His voice was barley audible when he asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’
*
Danny rushed inside the shack as soon as he’d turned the paper dartboard over and started reading what was scrawled on the back of it. Charlie was still asleep, the trauma of last night and his exertions prior to it evidently having exhausted him. Exhausted or not, Danny roused him by tugging on his tail three or four times. Charlie growled in his sleep before coming to.
He opened his red-rimmed eyes and looked around in all directions, then shook away what sleep remained in his head and leaped down on to the floor. Charlie was so relieved to see Danny alive and well and apparently suffering no ill-effects from last night that he couldn’t restrain himself from rushing over to where he sat at the table rereading the contents of Aloysius’s message. He sprang up on to the table and started licking one of his hands, his tail wagging at about a hundred miles an hour. Danny, without looking up, scratched Charlie’s head, then said, ‘Good morning, Charlie, and yes thanks, I’m fine. Now down you hop and get your own breakfast. And be snappy about it. We’ve a busy day ahead of us.’
Charlie jumped down as bidden. He looked at Danny, then at the box of cornflakes sitting on the table. Danny was still engrossed in his study of the message. Charlie barked quietly, pointing his snout towards the cornflakes. Danny looked at him and smiled. ‘I see what you mean, Charlie, but I’m busy right now. Just fire away and become whatever you have to to help yourself. You don’t need me to tell you every single time.’
Charlie wagged his tail in thanks. Although he was capable of transforming on his own, he preferred to let Danny special language decide what it should be. It was safer that way. Sometimes Charlie didn’t make the best decisions off his own bat. Now, though, he could see that Danny had other things on his mind.
Charlie dashed under the table. Seconds later, a chimpanzee with four arms emerged from the other side of it. Charlie wasn’t taking any chances. He’d been concentrating on hands, hands, hands, and had overdone the transformation somewhat. Not that it mattered one way or the other, as the many hands made light work. He shovelled down the entire box of cornflakes, using four spoons in rapid rotation. He didn’t forget his manners, though. He sat on the floor with a soup bowl between his hairy legs, upending flakes into it until they were all gone. Then he washed the bowl and left it on the draining board to dry.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mr. Pearson was in a state of euphoria. At precisely the same time as Danny was poring over Aloysius’s message, he phoned the electronics plant where he worked and informed them he wouldn’t be in today. When the telephonist who took his call said she hoped he’d be feeling all right again soon, Mr Pearson told her he’d never felt better in his life.
He just didn’t feel like working today, he said, as he’d far better things to occupy his mind at the moment. The telephonist advised him sweetly to go straight back to bed, get his wife to make him a nice hot drink of Lemsip, and she was sure he’d be right as rain in the next few days. The telephonist was under the impression the poor man had a fever, and didn’t realise what he was saying was due to being somewhat delirious at the moment. She’d often felt that way herself after catching a bad dose of the flu. The telephonist would have quickly changed her opinion if she knew the real reason for Mr. Pearson’s euphoria.
*
When he’d come home last night after his sightseeing trip on Charlie’s back, Mr. Pearson was beside himself with excitement. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was in disarray, and his heart was going bumpty-bumpty-bumb-bump-bump!, as though there was a tiny drummer inside his chest pounding away on tom-toms, while another midget musician was accompanying him, using Mr. Pearson’s ribs as a xylophone.
It was exhilarating. Mr. Pearson had no idea that it was possible for anyone to feel in such a rarefied state of elation about anything. He felt like stripping off all his clothes, running out into the garden, turning on the sprinklers, and waking up the whole neighbourhood with a rendition of Singing in the Rain. But, of course, he didn’t quite have the energy for anything like that yet.
For the moment, Mr. Pearson just sat there at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea and nibbling a Custard Cream. His new invention was lying beside the packet of biscuits, only begging to be allowed to justify the long hours he’d put into its creation. Mr. Pearson was surprised it didn’t rise up of its own accord, pop into his hand and squeak at him not to be wasting time in discovering if it would pass the ultimate test. But Mr. Pearson knew that there was no rush. Besides, he’d have to allow his excitement to abate to something approaching normality first. The drummer and xylophone player inside him weren’t too far away from concluding their concert.
Another leisurely nibbling of a second Custard Cream should suffice to see them taking a well-earned standing ovation from Mr. Pearson’s other internal organs. And Mr. Pearson was perfectly right about that. After the clapping subsided, and he’d drained the last of his tea, a wondrous mixture of serenity and excitement combined to engulf him in the most extraordinarily beautiful fashion. He felt as though nothing was beyond him.
Upstairs, he eased the handle of the bedroom door open without making a sound. Mrs. Pearson lay like a hump-backed whale under the duvet, fast asleep, wheezing like a bellows, her body rising and subsiding with every inhalation and exhalation of her slumber. The room was in semi-darkness, the light from the streetlamp outside throwing the design of the net curtains across the carpet.
Mr. Pearson stood in the doorway and watched her bulky outline beneath the heaving duvet. He wasn’t in any hurry. He’d been savouring this moment for most of his married life. This, he thought to himself, was how Newton and Marconi must have felt just before they were about to conduct the experiments which would change their lives forever.
Mr. Pearson aimed the business end of his invention at his wife. He was so confident of its abilities after last nights performance, he did so in a leisurely manner, pointing it in her direction in slow motion, as though he almost hoped she’d wake up and see what he was about to do.
He’d have loved to see the look on her face at the precise second he rendered her helpless. But he knew that even if he poked her with a stick, she’d just lie there wheezing her head off until morning. Mr. Pearson pressed a button and the invisible beam did the rest. Mrs. Pearson, duvet and all, rose up from where she lay and began heading for the ceiling.
After last night’s trial and error session, Mr. Pearson now knew exactly what he was doing. Another deft manipulation of a button halted her progress. She commenced displaying astounding powers of levitation five feet over the bed. He eased her up another foot or so, then spun her around and around like a spinning top for a while, thinking to himself that she’d make a fortune in a circus if she could only do what she was now doing unaided.
Then Mr. Pearson brought her to a standstill. He sighed the biggest sigh of relief he’d ever sighed in his entire life. At last he’d achieved what he’d been so long striving for. He couldn’t resist the pendulum button, but was careful t
o ensure the motion control was only on at quarter-speed.
After all, it wouldn’t do to switch to full power. Not inside the house anyway. With Mrs. Pearson’s bulk, she’d more than likely smash right through the walls like a human wrecking-ball if he made the same mistake as he had with Danny. As it was, things were fine. Mrs. Pearson was swinging ever so gently from side to side, as though suspended from invisible wire. If she hadn’t already been asleep, Mr. Pearson might have been tempted to start crooning Rock-a-bye baby, or some other lullaby. Satisfied with his night’s work, Mr. Pearson eased his wife back down to her former position, the duvet fluttering to rest over her exactly as it was prior to the experiment.
*
‘You know, Dermot,’ Mrs. Pearson said shrilly at the breakfast table next morning. ‘I had the most peculiar dream last night.’
‘Really, dear,’ Mr. Pearson replied innocently. ‘That’s nice.’ ‘What do you mean, nice! I haven’t told you what it was yet!’
‘But I’m sure you’re going to, dear,’ Mr. Pearson said calmly, spreading marmalade on a slice of toast. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it, would you?’
‘Harrumph!’ she growled, not quite sure what to make of that remark, also a bit surprised in the manner in which it had been relayed to her. ‘I sincerely hope for your sake you’re not trying to make fun of me. Nice, indeed!’ She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed it a few times. ‘If I didn’t feel so dizzy, I’d give you a slap across the ear for being so cheeky.’
Mr. Pearson munched some toast, looking totally disinterested at the threat. Normally, he’d have one eye on the kitchen door, judging how quickly he could get to it if the need for rapid escape arose.
‘Dermot!’ she growled. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m feeling quite dizzy this morning.’
‘That’s probably as a result of that gin you drink before you go to bed, dear,’ he said affably, giving her a nice friendly smile. ‘You really should give it up, you know. If you don’t do it of your own accord, I’m afraid I’m going to insist you never down another drop.’