by PN Burrows
As Sam walked down the worn and creaky staircase, Mrs Williams nosily popped her head out from behind the lounge door. ‘Going out, Sam?’ she enquired. ‘You mind the chill now. It looks warm with that spring sun shining, but once you’re in the shade you’ll feel it. Mark my words.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Williams.’ Sam didn’t actually know her first name as she always referred to herself and her husband as Mr and Mrs Williams. A newspaper would rustle whenever Mr Williams heard his name, as if to prove his very existence. ‘I will keep wrapped up. I might be back late, I have the key.’
‘Ok dearie, we’ll see you at breakfast. Mr Williams bought some lovely tomato sausage for tomorrow, butcher’s best, none of that supermarket rubbish.’
Sam could almost make out the barely discernible mumbled reply from the lounge as he made his way to the front door. ‘See you in the morning, have a nice day, Mrs Williams’.
CHAPTER TWO
Sam left the B&B, giving the solidly built wooden door a little rattle to make sure it latched. He turned right out of the front garden and ambled off in a north-west direction. Deep in thought, he paced himself as he was in no rush to cover the four or so mile walk to Minera.
To the casual observer, he failed to notice the dirty blue plumber’s van with two occupants parked further up the street. Since Saturday he’d been more alert and silently observed many curious things. He didn’t like being toyed with and it was only with great effort that he refrained from walking the other way and yanking the passenger out as he passed. As Sherlock would have said: ‘The game is afoot.’ Sam had no idea what game he was in the middle of, but he would soon.
They didn’t need to be close enough to recognise Sam as he left the B&B, they had been watching him and his preparations for departure on the small screen disguised as a TomTom Sat Nav.
‘He’s leaving now,’ a gruff voice reported into a collar microphone. ‘Charcoal jacket, jeans, black boots and a nondescript black peaked cap. I don’t know if you were watching, but he’s packing.’
‘Ok, Phon, if he’s coming straight here it should be about an hour. We’ll let you know when he arrives. Give it a couple of hours then pick up his belongings and retrieve the cameras. Inform the landlady that he was in an accident and you are there to pick up his stuff. You know the drill.’
Xenophon, or Phon to his friends, watched the feed from the drone camera which was parked across the road, slightly north of Sam’s B&B in a neighbour’s gutter. It was as small as Phon could make it using the commonly available parts, with only a small lens protruding above the rim of the gutter. Operational parameters prevented him from using their high-tech gadgets. The low quality and poor battery life of commercially available stuff was a pain and the sheer bulkiness of the components was certainly a challenge.
‘Yeah,’ Gruff replied, as he leaned over to retrieve his briefcase from behind the passenger seat. ‘Do you want to be Jones or Llywelyn?’ he asked his partner as he took out two warrant cards along with two faded clip-on ties.
‘Llywelyn,’ Phon replied, over-emphasising the “Ll” with phlegm and managing not to spit all over Gruff as he mimicked the Welsh accent. ‘But let’s go for a coffee first, we can’t do anything for a while and we should swap this for the Astra,’ he said, tapping the metal of the van with his knuckle.
The unpaved, poorly maintained tarmac road meandered lazily through the countryside, as if people would have all the time in the world to get to their destination. It was certainly not Roman military road, Sam thought to himself as he came upon a section that wasn’t even wide enough for it to have central dividing white lines. The surrounding fields had a smattering of arable, horticultural and livestock, where small, tired-looking hedges enclosed fields. Only the livestock fields had solid boundaries, which consisted of patched mesh fencing filling in the gaps between sections of hedge.
Sam was, despite the reason for this outing, enjoying the fresh air and open space. It was a little before 11am, the sun was shining and a varied selection of birds were singing a plethora of songs trying to attract mates now that spring had arrived. For a backwater road the traffic was certainly busier that he had anticipated. Heavy diesel fumes from the lorries marred what would have been a most pleasant walk. As Sam rounded a long right-hand bend, he could see the slate roofs and grey stone walls of buildings ahead: journey’s end. As he craned his neck a little to see more clearly over the hedges, he failed to notice that the driver of a white pickup gave him more than the customary casual glance as he drove past towards the hamlet.
Walking around a slow lazy curve of the road, Sam had a better view of the exterior buildings. Two-storey Victorian terraced houses, Olde English style in dull grey stone. They had pointed gables with intricate carvings on the bargeboards and roof finials. Judging by the size and design of the windows, the buildings were pre 1850s, as the abolishment of the window and brick tax in that year made two-story houses with bay windows become prolific. There were five terraced houses on each side of a double-gated roadway facing the road. As Sam walked closer he felt the downdraft and then vacuum pull from a passing lorry as it drove as close to Sam and grass verge as possible to increase its available turning circle for the right-hander into the hamlet. Diesel fumes spewed all around the articulated unit as it changed gear, great black clouds billowing from the twin exhausts mounted vertically behind the cab. Sam paused to let it pass, giving him a few seconds more to study the buildings. There were no signs, street name or company insignia on view. The driver must have been here before to drive so confidently in through the gated entrance.
Sam walked across the road towards the hamlet. The large and sturdy iron gates hung from the side walls of the end terrace houses, each having a small wheel to help support their immense weight. The drop bolt holes in the metalled road contained old and crusty detritus, indicating they hadn’t been used recently, although he noted that the stout hinges were rust-free and covered in dark grease.
Walking between the drab stone sides of the houses, Sam could see the accessway open up into a large square. Several lorries were parked up by the communal green. He could see their drivers sat in the small greasy spoon café with huge mugs of tea. Old-fashioned doorstop sandwiches filled their hands and their cheeks bulged like hoarding hamsters. Not wishing to stand out, Sam walked across and entered the café. Instantly the aroma of freshly-ground coffee and smoky bacon assailed his nostrils. Behind the counter was an elderly lady with the air of a hospital matron. She was taking the plates through to the kitchen that a young, pleasant-looking waitress had passed her. The young waitress was anything but matronly. Brunette, early twenties, short black sleeved shirt with the name “Pat” embroidered above her left breast, short black skirt with a tiny white pinny, and her legs, which were definitely not short, encased in black hosiery and dainty black shoes with a slight heel that gave her calves a defined shape that Sam appreciated.
She glanced across at Sam and pulled a small pad from her pocket on the front of her pinny and made her way towards him.
‘Hi, what will it be?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Black coffee please. Decaf if you have it.’
‘Sure, hun.’ She scribbled down his order. ‘Anything else? Aunt Mae’s Spring Chill Buster breakfast sandwich is popular today. Homemade granary bread, three rashers of local smoky bacon, griddled not fried, field mushrooms, baked white pudding and a griddled flat sausage meat patty. Keep it local and keep it healthy, Aunt Mae always says,’ she said, with a smile that flashed her pearly white teeth. She delicately nibbled the end of the pen as she waited for him to answer.
Nice up sell, Sam thought to himself, Realising that he was peckish after his walk, it would give him an excuse to linger for longer in the café and allow him to observe life outside of the window. ‘Ok, you talked me into it.’
After scribbling the order she tore the top slip of paper from her pad to give to Aunt Mae at
the counter. As she spun to walk away, a delicate scent of flowers floated across to Sam. It was an unusual fragrance, reminiscent of the light freshness of a summer meadow. ‘Miss, sorry, I couldn’t help but notice your unusual perfume, it’s quite unique. Could I enquire what it is?’
She looked at him with soft brown eyes, ‘I distil the essence from the petals of a local flower,’ she said, slightly cocking her head to one side as if studying him. ‘It’s an old family recipe,’ she continued as she walked away.
Sam unashamedly watched her rear as she walk away only to be caught by the steely gaze of Aunt Mae. Sam turned his head away and stared though the window. A robin with a bright chest landed on the window sill, making short hops along it as if it was trying to find a way in. Curious, he had smelt the fragrance before, but it didn’t make sense. He’d smelt it on several occasions in his room at the B&B, as he roused from sleep. Mrs Williams only wore Chanel No. 5, as befitted her generation and she was not one for flowers in the house. The scent was one of the mysteries that had brought him here in a roundabout way. However, why would the scent of a waitress from nowhere be in his room and how could anyone creep up on him in his sleep? Years of sleeping in enemy territory had left him a light sleeper and it was impossible to navigate Mrs Williams’ staircase without making a noise, he’d tried. It wasn’t just the centre of the treads that creaked, but even the outer edges where they joined the inner and outer string. He’d even tried gently shinning up the one-inch tops of the strings, but to no avail. The whole staircase was so old and had shrunk with age so that it groaned and wailed like a banshee.
Gazing past the robin, Sam could see the communal green was a grass square, which was approximately fifty metres in size with benches scattered around interwoven pathways, all leading to a large central feature. From this distance Sam could not make out the details, but it appeared to be a collection of animals. There was a small village shop across the way, with the usual plethora of outside tables displaying crates of vegetables under a faded canopy. Houses surrounded the front section of the square, small offices in the middle and to the rear, a large brick built industrial warehouse with four sets of double doors and an eave height that would comfortably accommodate a double-decker. As Sam studied it, one set of doors opened and the articulated lorry, whose wake had fervently tried to drag Sam into the road earlier, pulled out. The curtain sides were closed, but judging by the bounce of the vehicle it was leaving the warehouse empty. Sam cast a glance at the other articulated vehicles parked along the kerb. All of them had the third axle lifted, indicating empty or very light loads. In a cloud of billowing fumes, the lorry pulled up in front of the others and the rumble of the engine died down. After a few minutes, the driver climbed down from the cab and walked towards the café.
Sam’s food arrived with a clatter as the plate and cutlery was slid in front of him. ‘I see you’ve met George.’
Sam looked up at the girl with a puzzled expression.
‘The robin.’ She indicated with her hand. It was still stood there on the sill, its head cocked looking at them and showing a total disregard for the trucks or the driver walking towards it. ‘He’s a cheeky little bugger, he’ll come right in if you leave the door open.’
As she mentioned the door, the driver walked in to a delicate, cascading tinkle of the small brass bell above the door announcing his arrival. He took a seat by the far wall and Sam again unashamedly admired the view as she walked towards the new customer and listened as she greeted him like an old friend.
‘The usual, Tony?’
Tony concurred, although his thick Brummie accent made it almost impossible to understand unless you were familiar with Birmingham’s dialect and mannerisms.
Pat didn’t bother with the pad this time; her aunt nodded across from the counter to confirm she’d heard Tony. Sam realised that Pat was fully aware that he was watching from behind, and when she stretched herself further over a table than was required to clean the furthest corners, causing her short skirt to ride up the back of her shapely thighs, Aunt Mae’s caustic voice rang out in admonishment. ‘Enough of that, Apate! And please clear Mark’s plates from table two!’
Apate, not a name he was familiar with and not the Patricia he was expecting. Making a mental note to look it up later, Sam again averted his gaze through the window and for a split second thought George was giving him an objurgating stare, before merrily hopping away.
He tuned out the chatter and kitchen noises as he studied the buildings outside. One of the occupants of those houses had probably ordered the Glendrumlindeen, an expensive vice for someone who lived in a terrace house in the back end of nowhere. Obviously there was no way to snoop around those premises today; besides the drivers and himself there were very few people around. There were occasionally a handful of warehouse staff milling around between deliveries and a gardener attending the flower beds on the green. Sam was aware that he would be conspicuous if he loitered for no good reason. The only building of interest was the warehouse, which ironically was a visually unimpressive structure. Something wasn’t right with this place and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It wasn’t unusual for to have Victorian industrial buildings with the workers’ dwellings nearby, but they weren’t normally part of the same gated community.
The houses were impeccably maintained, as were the yards and gardens. The shop looked worn and tired but besides the faded canopy it was pristine; the windows were clean and the wood work showed no sign of rot or neglect. Looking around the café, Sam noticed the floor had a deep shine, like it was polished on a regular basis, not just cleaned. The drivers seemed oblivious to all of this, their banter was about traffic, roadworks, today’s Page Three model and the usual mundane small talk of tired and weary males. The original group had finished their food, paid and left, taking their trucks with them. A continual cycle of transporters cycled through the hamlet. Every twenty minutes a new truck would arrive – it was a smooth and well thought-out logistical process. Three trucks every hour would pull in, enter the warehouse via one of three sets of double doors and exit empty out of the fourth door ready to park up. All had pulled up for at least a forty-five minute rest. That duration meant that they had had quite a drive before or ahead of them. The tachograph recorded the driver’s times which ensured they stuck to the law regarding rest stops every four and a half hours of driving. Whatever they were delivering, it wasn’t local.
Sam finished his second coffee and pushed the plate and mug into the centre of the table. He was glad he hadn’t gone for the full-caff now. He didn’t want his hands getting the caffeine shakes later. Rising, he asked Pat if he could have the bill and paid a visit to the gents. It didn’t surprise him to find that the toilets were spotless and smelt fresh. Mentally he always gauged the kitchen cleanliness by the condition of the toilets. The unmistakable sound of the Dyson hand drier would have given Pat a twelve-second heads-up on Sam’s exit time. The incredibly cheap bill for £4.25 was on the table upon his return. He tipped the change from a fiver and walked out, having complemented Mae and Pat on the fine food.
Walking towards the green, he feigned an interest in the sculpture, keeping to one of the paths supplied and mindful of the “keep off the grass” signs. Noticing the questioning look from the gardener he commented, ‘The sculpture intrigued me, I just had to have a look before I left.’
The detail and finesse of the bronze sculpture surprised Sam, as did the size. At 8 feet in diameter and almost the same in height, it depicted a nature scene with nearly every local insect, plant and animal Sam could think of. From the lowly earthworm at the roots of a small crop of wheat, a ladybird and a bee on a raspberry, to a hawk and an owl perched on opposite sides an old apple tree. It was, to him, a symbolic cross-section of UK nature and wildlife, a snapshot of how beautiful the countryside was if you took the time to look.
For a few minutes he forgot the reason for coming so close to the warehouse as he studi
ed the feature before him. He half expected the mice to run away and the blackbirds or frogs to eat the odonates, such was the quality and craftsmanship.
‘Breathtaking, isn’t it? I find it a reliable way to gauge the nature of a man. Those that fail to behold its beauty and hopefully ruminate about nature’s decline due to the onset of mankind, well, they tend to have little or no morality in my experience,’ said the patronising old man.
‘It’s certainly finely crafted,’ replied Sam, turning towards the gardener. He was an old man, a worn and sinewy person, like a piece of rawhide left out in the sun for too long. Tired-looking, but there was intelligence there. Sam could see an alertness in those eyes.
‘We are very proud of it, it symbolises what we believe in around here. Working together, joined with nature, symbiotically, not as a parasite bleeding its host.’
‘That sounds a little cultish,’ Sam interjected.
‘No, not at all, we are just a group of locals who collaborate for mutual benefit. Just like any other village or farming community around here.’ The old man looked up from the flower bed. Sam recognised the flowers, but not having any personal interest in gardening, he didn’t know their names. ‘We don’t get many visitors here, only the drivers and they’re not interested in much. They’re happy enough as long as the coffee is hot and the bacon is thick, besides that there’s not much to see this far from the main road. I take it you will be heading back soon. I noticed you didn’t arrive in a car, that road can be dangerous for pedestrians. I can ask one of the drivers if they will give you a lift if you want.’