‘Are you ready to give ISAW the last disc?’
‘Oh, I already had it delivered to your offices,’ said Michael. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Er . . . no, actually, I didn’t.’ Ralph looked a little surprised as the final Treasure Hunt had obviously not yet been released. ‘You want to tell me what the riddle is?’
‘You mean you haven’t figured it out, Ralph?’ Michael asked.
For a moment Ralph looked blank. Then Michael offered a sly smile.
‘Oh, no! You’re not serious?’ Ralph looked stunned.
Michael’s smile broadened. ‘Do you want to know the real answer?’
‘Sorry? The real answer? You mean the answer isn’t . . . No of course it couldn’t be, could it?’
Michael shook his head. ‘Of course not! May I have a piece of paper and a pencil, please? It’s pretty easy, really. I’ll show you.’
*
Since the arrival of the final Treasure Hunt, Andy Rogers had not left the ISAW building. He’d even taken to sleeping there, making a bed on the leather couch in his office.
The due date for the release of the disc had passed. He had managed to fend off all the initial enquiries, citing problems at the plant as reason for the delay; but now, he was out of options, and out of time.
The press were already baying for blood, calling the whole thing a fraud; and without either the answer to the final voyage or some word from Gordon to convince him that it was not, indeed, a hoax, he was beside himself.
After fetching a bottle of Jack Daniels from the boardroom liquor cabinet that afternoon, he retreated to his office and proceeded to get very drunk, while contemplating the now, very real possibility that ISAW was ruined, and he and his fellow directors could be facing goal-time.
His computer started making a noise at about six o’clock that evening. Andy was passed out on the couch. He came to again hearing a bleeping sound from across the office.
Had he not drunk most of the bottle of whiskey the bleeping would not have sounded like a troop of mechanical, cymbal-banging monkeys.
Groaning at the impossibly loud noise, he momentarily forgot where he was, and promptly rolled off the couch.
Then he scrambled across the carpeted floor on his hands and knees as if his life depended on it. ‘I’ve had more pleasant carpet burns,’ he mumbled to himself.
Hauling himself up into the chair, he reached out and clicked the mouse, opening the email.
‘Please, God, let this be it,’ he prayed out loud.
As he finished reading, he began to laugh. Before long, the door opened and a worried looking member of security poked his head round the door.
‘Everything all right, Mr Rogers?’
‘Fine, George, really fine. Ab-so-lutely fantastic!’ He reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels and held it up. ‘Care for a drink, George?’
‘Er, no thank you, sir.’ George frowned as he looked around the dishevelled office. ‘Let me fetch some coffee for you, sir, won’t be a minute.’ He quietly closed the door and went to make a fresh pot, leaving Andy Rogers dancing like a lunatic and waving the half-empty bottle of whiskey.
*
A short while later, once Ralph, Fred and Hendrix had stopped laughing, a grinning Michael left the room with his granddad to rejoin his parents. Fred had decided to try and explain things to Liz and Gary, as difficult as that might turn out to be. But with the help of Michael and Bill he felt he would be able to make them understand.
‘I wonder what this news is that my wife has got,’ said Ralph. He was excited at the prospect of seeing Stephanie again. It had seemed almost an age since they were last together.
The cat cocked its head.
‘For someone who Michael seems to think is so clever, you can be decidedly dense, sometimes.’ Hendrix shook his head slowly.
Ralph stared at the cat. At first he frowned, but then his face lit up in wonder.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.
‘What do you think, daddy?’
Ralph threw his arms in the air then began to dance around the room hollering.
‘It’s only a baby, for crying out loud! Cats make them all the time.’
*
Twenty minutes later Fred and his family entered the room.
‘I think its time to say goodbye, Ralph,’ said Fred quietly. The entourage behind him, Bill included, all had a very sombre look about them.
‘I believe you are going to be a father, Ralph. Congratulations,’ Fred smiled.
‘Hendrix told me. I promised to keep it a secret,’ Fred explained at the quizzical look he received from Ralph.
‘One leaves, another arrives,’ said Fred poignantly. ‘That’s life. It’s the way it should be.’
Ralph went over and hugged Fred. ‘Goodbye, Fred. See you around sometime.’
‘Count on it,’ said Hendrix.
Fred nodded to the cat, smiled and said, ‘Ready when you are, my friend.’
There were no fireworks or loud bangs. No blinding light or winged angels. Ghost Ralph, the erstwhile Inspector Jacques Clouseau, merely began to fade until he disappeared. At the same time, a change came over Ralph’s body. The light in his eyes changed, he blinked once or twice, shuddered, and then quietly announced:
‘I’m back.’
As Ralph returned to himself and all the adults crowded round to see if he was okay, Michael slipped quietly outside the office and sat on a chair opposite the front desk.
Sharon Griffith was outside on the steps saying goodbye to her future husband, Constable Moss. She didn’t know it at that moment, but Hendrix had said it was a dead cert.
To the casual onlooker Michael may have seemed to be a sad-looking boy. But that wasn’t true at all, he was merely listening to his granny and granddad taking turns read him chapters of a story while he waited for his mum and dad to finish up inside Sergeant Williams’ office. The story was one they used to read to him when he was a baby, but he knew they liked to read it so he sat quietly and didn’t interrupt.
*
Fred Johnson was buried at nine-thirty on Sunday morning. Ralph was right when he said it would be the most famous funeral in the history of Wiggleswood.
There were around one hundred members of the press. Many had a story to tell about how their offices on one hand were pleased that the identity of Teddy Remback had finally been revealed but, on the other hand, they felt cheated as he had passed away before the release of the final Treasure Hunt disc.
No pleasing some people, Ralph had thought, as he stood in the rain and watched Fred’s coffin being lowered into the ground.
Reverend Steven Wilkins read a short poem from Tennyson.
Afterwards Albert read one of his own.
‘He was good at darts, and didn’t tell one dirty joke
He stood his round in the pub, he was a good bloke.’
He received a few questioning glances from several downcast heads.
‘What? Oh all right, I forgot. An’ he gave me this coat.’
Then Albert mumbled something and nodded to a point off to his right.
‘I’m off to the pub. Fred told me to say the drinks are on him and that there’s a thousand quid in a box next to his bed under the carpet. An’ if you lot don’t believe me, ask Ralph Fenwick. Coming, Alfred?’
He stamped out of the cemetery of Saint Mary’s church and headed for the Coach and Horses.
Epilogue
Ten days after Fred Johnson’s funeral, at precisely 8.00 a.m. on a Thursday morning, the tenth Treasure Hunt was released.
Within five days the entire run was sold out and a second run had to be rush-released.
Exactly two weeks after the release, at 9.42 a.m. someone finished the last voyage and solved the riddle, TEDDY REMBACK?
It was a five-letter word.
At 9.50 a.m. the website for the Swiss bank in Zurich had authenticated this person’s software, accepted the correct answer and acknowledged the bank account details. The Prize
money was transferred, and by 9.56 a.m. it was all over.
An automatic message stating that the prize had been won and the game was over was immediately sent by email to every major newspaper. The most successful computer game in the history of computer games was finished, and one lucky person was five million Euros richer.
The day after was an odd day in Wiggleswood. Odd things happened.
Ben Finch returned to work, unobserved, after an absence of nearly a fortnight. He didn’t even have a sick note. But from the way he was dressed, he probably should have.
He was wearing a check sports-jacket that was straight out of the seventies.
His hair had been styled in a sort of pompadour and combed backwards. This must have taxed the skill of the hairdresser, as Ben Finch had dead-straight hair.
On the sides of his face were the beginnings of some serious sideburns. He was also wearing a pair of teardrop sunglasses. As there hadn’t been much sun for a while, Finch was forced to look over the top of the glasses most of the time so he could see where he was going.
There was an extremely large bulge underneath his jacket. If Mae West had been around to ask, ‘Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?’ Ben Finch would have probably answered ‘yes’ to both questions.
He left the station unnoticed. It had been very early when he arrived and nobody was due on shift for an hour.
When Bill Williams arrived at work an hour later there was a brand new Range Rover parked in his space.
A note slipped under the windscreen wipers read, ‘Are you feeling lucky? Well are you, sarge?’
Bill smiled.
A month later, he received a postcard of an orang-utan. There was no message, but the postmark indicated it had come from San Francisco.
Bill Williams stood in his office staring at the picture of ‘The Old Way Station.’ He wasn’t paying it any serious attention, merely pondering the events of the past couple of weeks. Had he been scrutinising the picture more closely he might have noticed that the resident rat-catcher was missing. Hendrix might have said it was something to do with ‘energies’.
The two friends sat at the table playing chess. Although anyone watching would have believed there was only one player.
‘Ralph says that you’re busy designing another game for ISAW; a five-disc set this time.’
'Uh-huh.’
'He says you want to give the first disc away for free to every player that bought Treasure Hunt.'
'That's right.’
'You're all heart, you know that?’ said the cat.
The boy smiled.
‘Checkmate, I think?’ he said.
'I take that back. Are you sure?’ the cat asked.
‘Think so, yes,’ the boy replied.
‘Darn it. You’re so clever. And rich. Why can’t you design a chess-set for players with paws?’
'Maybe I will,’ the boy grinned.
'What's the name of the new game, by the way?’ the cat asked.
‘Almost Dead In Suburbia.’
‘I like it!’ said the cat
Ralph/Gordon sat across the breakfast table from his beautiful, radiant, pregnant wife.
‘The offer I made on the house was accepted,’ he said. ‘I think Wiggleswood will be a nice place to raise a child, don’t you?’
Stephanie smiled. In some way, the smile reminded Ralph of Emma.
He poured two coffees then reached for the sugar bowl. It was almost empty. He sighed. He knew there was none in the cupboard, and they hadn’t been shopping since Stephanie’s return.
‘You see what happens when you go away for more than five minutes; we’re out of sugar. I’ll just pop round to Mary’s and borrow a cup. Wont be a tick.’
Hearing noises from Mary’s kitchen, he headed down the path to her back door.
He knocked breezily.
‘It’s open; come in,’ Mary called.
Ralph waltzed in and nearly fainted on the spot.
‘Oh, good morning, Ralph. This is our mysterious neighbour. He’s renting next door for a few months. I see by the cup in your hand you’ve run out of sugar too, just like Mister Barnes here.’
TEDDY REMBACK?
The End
Author’s Footnote.
I’m not sure that John Barnes ever rented a house in Wiggleswood, but he may have. You never know.
Apologies to two very special Cestrian golfers. ‘Pat’ would never have needed Ralph’s help.
And finally, the solution!
What was the five letter word Ben Finch filled in?
The intention was never to hide that Michael was Teddy Remback; but rather that Teddy Remback was not an actual person, as ‘Ralph’ realised during his meeting with Michael. The name always appeared with a question mark.
The rhyme in the last disc had all the clues…
‘Allo Mateys!
Up ahead lies treachery,
As we sail t’ward a foreign sea, (Foreign sea: Mer)
To a long-dead King, first thought twisted, (King Edward I -Longshanks)
And an ancient curse, that must be lifted, (Curse: Swearword. Lifted: Retrieve, pull out.)
Some will have floundered, some will have sank, (Sank: cinq –five)
But le mot juste will clear the bank. (Le Mot Juste: The right word. Bank: bank account.)
Look closely at Teddy Remback.
Edward Remback
(Ed)ward (Rem)back
EdRem wardback
Backward Edrem = Merde
Douglas Pearce was born in England sometime during the previous century.
He currently lives in South Africa, where he shares a house with his wife, Celeste, their children, Emily and Adrian, and a varying number of cats and dogs.
If you’d like to write you can email him at:
[email protected]
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‘The Little Boot’ – Caligula. Roman Emperor from AD 37-41A
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