Provender Gleed

by James Lovegrove

  Milner immediately straightened up, to prove that he was not the type of person who did that type of thing.

  'Sorry. Wasn't really thinking. I was taking a rest. I've just had a bit of a sort of close shave, you see.'

  The shopkeeper nodded, understanding only too well. 'Ah yes. You're not a resident, are you? I can tell. Needle Grovers have a certain look about them, and you don't have it. Though you seem to be well on your way to having it. What happened? Run into one of the gangs? Get stuck in a lift for an hour?'

  'No, I just grabbed a bite to eat from that café over there --'

  'Say no more. The food there is a traumatic experience.'

  'No, it wasn't that. Then I stepped outside for a breath of what passes for fresh air in this city, and somebody went and dropped a table on me.'

  The shopkeeper shrugged, as if such an event was a daily occurrence in Needle Grove. 'They missed, though.'

  'Just barely. I swear to God, an extra layer of skin and I'd have been a dead man.'

  'You're lucky.'

  'Don't I know it.'

  'Lyman Ho,' said the shopkeeper, extending a hand.

  'Merlin Milner,' said Milner, shaking it.

  'I am, as you might have guessed, the proprietor of this establishment.' Mr Ho rapped an affectionate knuckle on the shop window. 'Mr Ho's All-Day Emporium. Robbed and/or vandalised a grand total of seventy-eight times since I took over the lease, and still in business.'

  'That's a record to be proud of.'

  'I like to think so. Would it be rude of me to ask why you've come to the Grove? It's simply that we get very few outsiders here and you seem, if I might say so, not the typical visitor. A cut above that.'

  Milner was only too happy to accept the compliment. 'I'm here on business. I can't really tell you much more than that. It's confidential and rather serious.'

  'Forgive my enquiry. I'm famously nosy. I like to know everything that's going on. It's a useful trait for a shopkeeper, to be interested in the lives of all his customers and potential customers, but sometimes, I realise, I go too far. I cross the boundary of good manners. You English and your good manners - it's very confusing for a foreigner like me. You all know where the lines are drawn but you're damned if you're going to let anyone else in on the secret.'

  Milner smiled. Already he liked Mr Ho, and Milner wasn't someone who warmed to people easily. Then there was Mr Ho's name, his full name, Lyman Ho. It hardly even needed anagrammatising. Just swap forename and surname around, and hey presto, instant trustworthiness.

  'You must be from Hong Kong, correct? Anglo-Saxon first name like that.'

  'Indeed. Son of very prestigious banking family. Not Family, not quite, though we had aspirations to be. Perhaps a couple more generations and we'd have made it. But it wasn't to be.'

  'The Shanghai Uprising.'

  'The great revolution.' Mr Ho sneered. 'When the Four Acquaintances took power and the people of China became a single, billion-strong Family. And my own family, like many others, was obliged to ... "pool our assets", the phrase was. "Had our assets stolen by the government", more like. We were truly Shanghaied. No more rich, no more poor. Everyone equal. No Families lording it over everyone else. And look how well it turned out.'

  'And naturally you emigrated, and you ended up here. Running this place.'

  'It's not glamorous, it's not lucrative, but it's a living. And, if all goes well, it's a start. Three, four generations from now, maybe there'll be All-Day Emporiums across the entire country, and maybe a couple of generations after that the Hos will be a Family. It's possible. Anything's possible.'

  Milner looked from Mr Ho's modest retail enterprise to Mr Ho's dreamy expression, and saw a gulf between the two that all the ambition in the world could not bridge.

  Time to change the subject. It was obvious to Milner that Mr Ho was an unparalleled source of local knowledge and might be able to help him with the dilemma he presently faced. Chances were Mr Ho knew at least one of the two names remaining on his list, if not both. Some inside info on Damien Scrase and Demetrius Silver would come in handy.

  As Milner opened his mouth to speak, there was a commotion at the far end of the shopping arcade. Turning, Milner saw a bustling group of about thirty people come into view. They were a mixed lot: elderly women, overweight middle-aged males, some teenagers, a smattering of children. What they had in common was an air of eager excitement and the fact that each was carrying a candle.

  The group passed by Mr Ho's shop and headed out into daylight.

  'ClanFans,' observed Mr Ho. 'If I'm not mistaken, the official Needle Grove Block Twenty-Six ClanFan Society.'

  'Where are they off to? What are the candles for?'

  'To hold a vigil. Didn't you know? It's Provender Gleed's birthday today.'

  'Oh. Ah.' Milner hadn't known. But then, unlike his partner, he didn't follow the Families.

  'Yes, they'll stand in a ring, sing "Happy Birthday". It's a ritual they have.'

  Little do they realise, Milner thought to himself, that the person whose birthday they're celebrating is actually here. Provender might even be able to hear them singing.

  'Mr Ho,' he said, trying his best to make it sound as if what he was about to say had no connection with the foregoing exchange, 'a short while ago you asked if you could be of assistance. As it happens, you can.'

  'You'd like to buy something?' Mr Ho started to usher him towards the shop entrance. 'Be my guest.'

  'No, it's not that. It's more to do with... I'm looking for someone. Two people, to be exact. One's called Demetrius Silver, and he's --'

  Mr Ho's expression turned sour. 'Don't. Don't mention that person. A wicked, wicked man. They say he sacrifices babies. I don't believe it myself, but I do know that he's involved in some very dark practices. He keeps coming in and asking if I could get a goat's skull in stock. A goat's skull! As if I can just ring up my wholesaler and order half a dozen. He offers to pay me handsomely for it, but that makes no difference. I'd rather not help a Black Magician if I can avoid it. He does have a fondness for tinned apricots, however. Don't ask me why.'

  'The other person is Damien Scrase,' said Milner. 'Would you by any chance know him too?'

  'Damien? I know him well.'

  'What's he like?'

  'Damien... Thoroughly decent. A prince among men.'

  Milner frowned. That didn't seem right. It didn't tally with the anagrams. Maybe Silver was the perpetrator of the kidnapping after all.

  'Yes,' Mr Ho went on, 'a good man who's quite out of place in this rat-hole. He wants a better world. He wants to get rid of the Families. I try to explain to him that that might not be a good thing, but he never listens. You have to admire altruism like his even if you don't agree with it.'

  'He doesn't like the Families?'

  'Didn't you hear what I said? He detests them.'

  Milner was feeling a quickening of the blood. 'Why is that, do you think?'

  'Who can say? He just believes we'd be better off without them. And he can't stand people like that lot who went past just now, those ClanFans. If he'd been standing here with us, he'd have laid into them verbally. Called them suckers and slaves and morons and sheep. I've seen him do it. It doesn't win him friends, but then with beliefs like his you can't expect to be popular. There was a rent protest a couple of years back. Maybe you read about it.'

  'I did.'

  'Damien was one of the prime movers of that. Helped organise it. Rallied tenants to the cause. But because he's such an anti-Familial he didn't have everyone's full respect, and when it came to the crunch, when the RLA tried to fob us off with a minor rent reduction which we knew they wouldn't keep to for long, Damien advised against accepting it. He told everyone to hold out for better terms. And no one listened. The rebels rebelled against one of their ringleaders and the protest fell apart. That's the drawback with hating the Families. You get hated in turn.'

  Milner was beyond excited now. He knew - knew - that he had his man.


  'Have you, um, have you seen him lately?' he enquired.

  'Yesterday. No, I tell a lie, the day before yesterday. He came in for cigarettes. He'd given up smoking for a couple of months but he was back on the fags again. Which is usually a sign that he's under strain of some sort. In this case it's a woman. He's been in an on-off relationship for a while. More off than on. For all his apparent self-assurance, Damien is sensitive when it comes to things that matter to him.' Mr Ho thumped himself in the chest, over the heart. 'Matter to him here. He also,' Mr Ho added, 'needed latex gloves for some reason.'

  That clinched it, as far as Milner was concerned. The smoking might be connected to a woman but the likelier reason for it was the kidnapping and holding captive of a certain Family member, which would surely put anyone on-edge. And the latex gloves - to prevent leaving fingerprints, obviously.

  'And at this point,' Mr Ho said, 'I suppose I should ask what your interest in Damien is, why you're looking for him. I've told you a great deal about him. Now you tell me about you.'

  'That's easier said than done.'

  'You aren't plainclothes police. You look a bit like it but you aren't. But you're here in some kind of official capacity. What?'

  'Would it be all right if I said you'll know in a day's time?'

  Mr Ho chuckled. 'It would be fine. I don't much care. I'm just a natural gossip. I'd tell you anything you wanted to know. Also, Damien's an idiot, really.'

  'I thought you said --'

  'I said I admire him. I said he's a good, decent man. I never said I like him. I don't. Not a bit. And if he's done something wrong, committed some offence, then more fool him. He deserves to be caught.' Mr Ho clapped Milner on the back. 'Now, if I really can't tempt you to make a purchase, I'd better be getting back inside. Off you go. Hunt him down. Good luck. And watch out for any more falling tables!'

  With that, Mr Ho disappeared into his shop, leaving Milner bemused, enlightened, but, above all else, elated.

  Damien Scrase.

  The intimidating anagrams were all at once unimportant. They were relegated to a position way down on the list of considerations, ousted by the sheer rapture Milner felt at knowing that his detective work had paid off and that the biggest case-bust of his career, probably ever, was now mere minutes away. He almost didn't need to pay a visit to Flat 45L, so confident was he that Damien Scrase was the guilty party. Caution, however, not to mention thoroughness, dictated that he should. As well as a location for the kidnapper, he wanted to be able to supply a first-hand physical description of the man before he picked up a phone and called the CLAN REAVER.

  The lifts beckoned. Milner sauntered towards them with his head held high and a spring in his step.

  PART V

  45

  For the Block 26 ClanFan Society, it was a special day, and about to get even more special.

  They didn't hold a candle vigil on just anyone's birthday. Like most ClanFan groups they had their favourites, the Family members they liked above all others. By common consent, the Block 26 Society held Cynthia Gleed in the highest regard. Plenty of societies did. But they also greatly admired Llewellyn Madoc, head of Wales's pre-eminent Family; Detver von Wäldchenlieb, that most Anglophile of Germans, who with tweeds and monocle and muttonchop whiskers and cries of 'Toodle-pip old chap!' was a living parody of a country squire (and perhaps the whole thing was a sly dig at the English, although given the impenetrability of the Teutonic sense of humour, who knew?); Siobhan Beauchamp-Dalziel-Featherstonehaugh, a tangential relative of one of the lesser British Families, who possessed the hardest-to-pronounce name known to man and who made up in camp outrageousness what she lacked in lineage; J.B. Bannerjee, hailed throughout the world for his philanthropic works, the most good-hearted spendthrift the planet had ever known; and last but not least, Provender.

  They liked Provender largely because they liked his mother, but also because he was an unknown quantity. There was something wilfully romantic about a Family member who shunned the limelight, who kept his privacy while all around him were squandering theirs, who was handsome and intelligent yet chose neither to flaunt nor to exploit these attributes. Provender was a blank slate on which the Block 26 ClanFans could write their own dreams, a cloud whose shape they could interpret any way they wanted.

  For some of the Society's female constituents, and a couple of the male, he was a heartthrob, the one they would fantasise about during their erotic daydreams or perhaps think about while making love with someone else. For the Society's junior contingent, he was just still young enough to be considered cool. For the older ladies among their number - and the Block 26 ClanFan Society was predominantly made up of women of mature years - he was the son they wished they'd had. He brought out the maternal instinct in them far more strongly than their own offspring ever had.

  The Society assembled, as was its wont, on the shopping level of Block 26, then trooped outdoors, because it was a nice day and why not make the most of it? They skirted around the remains of a smashed table. As resident Needle Grovers it scarcely occurred to them to wonder what that was doing there. You came across displaced objects all the time on the estate. They crossed the overpass to Block 31 and descended to an outdoor plaza some ten storeys lower, a recreation area protruding platform-like from Block 31's western flank.

  This was where they habitually went. It was a recreation area in name only. The tennis court there had no nets, the netball court likewise. In the children's section, the climbing frame was a hazard to life and limb - the RLA had posted KEEP OFF signs on it and kept promising to have it dismantled. The sandpit had become a litter tray used by every cat in the neighbourhood, and no self-respecting parent let their kids go anywhere near. As for the seesaw and the merry-go-round, there were concrete stumps where those once sat. Magically, mysteriously stolen.

  Today, a handful of Young Moderns had gathered on the site, but they cleared off, conceding it to the ClanFan Society. One kind of gang-tribe recognised another kind, and the Moderns saw in the ClanFans a degree of fanaticism that in their view was not healthy. It was one thing to base your lives around a mode of fashion, quite another to base your lives around certain people - people, moreover, you had never met and would never meet. The Moderns didn't even think about picking a fight. They just upped and left, wanting to put distance between themselves and the candle-toting nut-jobs.

  The Block 26 ClanFan Society spread themselves out in a circle on the netball court. In an atmosphere of joyous fervour, a match was struck, a candle lit, and then the flame was passed from wick to wick both ways around the circle until some thirty-odd candle-tongues were flickering in the breeze. Laughing and chattering, the ClanFans stood like a human birthday cake. They were waiting for one of them to start the singing. They were, at heart, a shy lot. En masse they had a robust strength but individually none like to stand out.

  At last one brave soul overcame her reticence and began the song in a warbling contralto:

  'Happy birthday to you...'

  Swiftly the rest joined in, at various different tempos, in a range of keys. The first two lines were a complete cats' chorus, but by 'dear Provender' everything came together and the final line was delivered in rousing, gusto-filled unison. Then there were hip-hip-hoorays and someone embarked on 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow', which the others sang along to with relish.

  Traditionally what came next was a series of personal testimonials. Each ClanFan in turn uttered a statement about the birthday boy or girl, which could take the form of a paean of praise, a humble confession of admiration, a direct personal address as if the Family member were actually there, or perhaps a story, anecdotal or fictional, about what he or she meant to the storyteller.

  The ClanFans had come prepared, each with speech notes set out on slips of paper. The statements were made in halting voices, stammered out, stumbled over. Each was listened to in respectful silence.

  '...I wish he would make up his mind and marry, make his mother happy...'


  '...know that if only we met, he would see straight away that I was the one for him...'

  '...yeah, so if I had all that money like he does, I'd, like, build this enormous house with all games and that in it, and all my friends could come and live there, and if he did that I'd be one of his friends and we could...'

  '...if royalty meant anything any more, he'd make a great king...'

  '...and Provender, please, if you can, don't let there be a war, in fact I have faith you're doing everything you can to stop there being one...'

  '...and he said to me, "Of course, what a great idea, why don't you come and live at Dashlands and be the official Gleed biographer?"...'

  '...I'm not asking for much, just enough to keep me going till I'm back on my feet and have a job again, and he's got so much cash to spare he wouldn't even notice, I mean we're talking pocket change for him, and oh. My. God. Oh my sweet Jesus. He's right over there. It's him. He's coming right this way. I swear. I don't believe it. He's there!'

  The ClanFan speaking, a man who had been out of work and living on benefit handouts for the past sixteen years, raised a trembling finger and pointed. The other ClanFans at first weren't sure what to make of this. What was he jabbering on about, Provender here? None of them wanted to turn and look in case it was just a practical joke, as when somebody yelled 'Behind you!' and there wasn't anyone behind you.

  But the man kept urging his fellow ClanFans to look. His face had gone white. His eyes were out on stalks. He could barely draw breath.

  So the other ClanFans did eventually look, and rapidly their faces went the way of the pointing man's. A couple of them dropped their candles. One woman spilled molten wax on her hand and didn't feel a thing. Another, unnoticed by the rest, fainted.

  Like some miracle, like some visitation from on high, like a sighting of the Blessed Virgin Mary or an alien from a spacecraft, the impossible made real, over the recreation area at a fast lick he came.