The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  The Scot had left on Greg's return to The Malthouse, though Wyndham was standing by the bar - without a drink. He obviously had news, so Greg bought him a pint and sat with him at a nearby table.

  “I seen him,” said the giant eagerly, “I seen tramp, and I tol' him what you said. - I tol' him you was from Cornwall, and you wanted to buy him a pint.”

  “You told him I was from Cornwall?” croaked Greg.

  “Aye,” said Wyndham proudly, “and I’ve found outbuildin' he’s moved to.” Greg wasted no time borrowing a torch from behind the bar, and hurried with his companion to the spot...but the tramp had gone.

  “Obviously spooked to learn someone from Cornwall was looking for him.” Greg sighed, frustrated to say the least with the evening's outcome. “To think I had both sods within kicking distance and missed them!” He groaned as he stooped to pick up a scrap of paper from the floor of the building, barely visible in the fading torch light. “Esso Before." Greg read, the words written in shaky capitals. "Racehorse by the sound of it.”

  *

  Plymouth at the same time.

  "Worf doin' a stretch for." The sleazy visitor lit a thin roll-up as he crossed from the entrance of the furnished flat to peer through the kitchen window. "View of Plymouf Saand while you're makin' toast eh? Nice work Smouty boy. Better'n the pad we shared in Dartmoor eh?"

  "A toilet block would be better'n that." Smout, fresh out of prison, smirked as he poured tea. "Found me a pad in a choice area for me sins - literally." The pair giggled smugly at the irony. "I reckon Benbow would 'ave got me a place on the sea-front if I'd actually murdered the little tarts. But I'll tell you something', I'd never leave another little scumbag around to talk."

  "You was lucky droppin' on a Tom Sawyer like 'im." The cockney placed a holdall on the kitchen table. "Wiv a bloke like 'im on ya side I reckon you could get away wiv murder."

  "I might 'ave to if there's a next time - jus' 'ave to try an' make me own amusement till it's all died down a bit." Smout picked up the holdall and walked through to the lounge. "View's even better from in 'ere."

  The visitor carried his tea into the lounge as Smout opened the blinds just enough to see across the street.

  "Bladdy hell, bit to go at there." The visitor surveyed the block of luxury apartments opposite, more window-area than brickwork. "Should get a decent spot o' fishin' out a that lot."

  "Nothing to lose, and not a lot else to do for now, and I might spot something worthwhile… something to help me relax." Smout's voice almost trembled as he took some video equipment and a laptop from the hold-all, along with a tangled clump of black wires and adaptors. "Good job they never caught hold of this." He connected a portable hard-drive to the tablet and proceeded to connect up a night-vision camera.

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the following days, on completion of his deliveries, Greg returned cautiously to The Malthouse each lunchtime, half-afraid of seeing a squad car outside. After taking a snack and a couple of pints, he would return to collect Red, so they could scour a new area of countryside in hope of finding the tramp. It wasn’t easy: the weather was atrocious, the bitter east wind having returned along with several copious layers of snow. Systematically, Greg checked every accessible outbuilding for miles around, asking everyone he met if they'd seen the tramp. While most folks knew of him, no-one could help, and the search became so apparently futile that Greg began to wonder if Isaac had moved on, or returned to Cornwall even.

  Although the days were lengthening, Greg wasn’t left with many hours of daylight to search, and he returned despondently each evening to cook a simple meal. His determination to retain as much money as possible hadn’t been dampened, and he even saved from the meagre wage he drew, so as to maintain some form of capital for his return to Cornwall.

  *

  Greg waited until a few days after the break-in before warily ringing Sarah to ask if she had news, but to her knowledge only Nigel had been questioned. Apparently there'd been no reason to hold him, but she agreed that Greg should stay put until the matter was resolved.

  "Just be careful, Greg," she entreated. "We can't get to find out much, but I get the impression the police aren’t sure now that there were traces of drugs in the Ulster… It’s been put back as it was, so I’m sure things will be sorted out soon."

  "I hope so, but I'm still looking for Isaac. It's looking hopeless, especially as finalisation concerning Penmaric House seems imminent, but while I’m here there’s little else I can do.”

  Before leaving the call-box Greg rang his sister, anxious as always not to burden her with details.

  "No, I moved to a different pitch, but it's great," he explained, omitting the two-hundred mile gap between sites. "While I think about it, did you ever see those guys in the Beamer again?"

  "No, why do you ask…? Is there something you're holding back, Greg, because you seem very interested in two blokes you dismissed as having taken a wrong turn?"

  "Well, it's not terribly important Jo, but I think they're debt collectors after Clare. I thought I saw them recently and I wanted to check the registration - but I lost my mobile with all the details and I wondered if you still had the number."

  "I threw the note away Greg, but Clare's problems are no longer your concern. I'm just intrigued that you saw these debt collectors in Cornwall!"

  Shit! Greg immediately realised how stupid it all sounded, so he decided – resentfully - to postpone if not abandon thoughts of revenge against the debt collectors. He chatted more generally for a while before getting back to the caravan and Red.

  *

  Greg's intention to continue with his search was severely compromised when he woke the following morning to find an old enemy had returned: an enemy which threatened to prevent him from earning his living. The demon, of dubious origin, was firmly embedded in the knee-joint of his right leg. Greg flinched as he put his foot to the floor and tried to bend his knee, but it was too swollen and painful. He knew from past experience that over-the-counter pills would have little effect. If he wasn’t to end up immobile and nauseous with pain he'd need to see a doctor for prescribed treatment,

  Alf Cropper was in The Malthouse when Greg returned after somehow completing his rounds, though the farmer was predictably unsympathetic.

  "That'll do you no good!” he snapped, pointing at the pint of foaming bitter Greg had ordered. “Altogether the wrong medicine if it’s gout or arthritis.”

  “I’m not sure what it is.” Greg winced as he spoke. “Had it since football days. I was always too busy to follow up after hospital tests, so I’m not sure whether it’s cartilage, arthritis or what.”

  “You’ll need to get it put right, whatever,” replied Cropper.

  “Do you know of a doctor who might see me? I need painkillers.”

  “Call and see my doctor, he’ll give you painkillers if nothing else.” Cropper took a draught from his beer. “But I’m warnin' you he's a stroppy old bastard, and whatever your ailment he'll put it down to drinkin' and smokin': standard medicinal advice that.

  “How long since you last seen a doctor?” piped up Fagash from a recess where he’d sat in uncharacteristic silence, “must be years.”

  “Aye, it is,” replied Cropper. “Why - they haven’t started takin' folk seriously 'ave they?”

  Fagash shook his head. “Diet!” he said.

  “Diet?”

  “Aye, main ammo these days. Doc'll tell you to cut out all the junk; fried foods, fats, sugar, pastries, white bread, dairy products, red meats. Anything you enjoys has to go.”

  “Junk you call it? That's my reg'lar daily intake!” Cropper almost gasped as he pushed back his trilby and scratched his head. “What am I supposed to eat, then?”

  “Anything that’s boring and tasteless, as a rule. All the foods they used to take you off when they put you on a diet - carbs mainly: brown bread, rice, cereals, baked potatoes, fruit, veg, beans...” Fagash stopped and winked. “Specially fartin' beans - right whole
some little bastards them am.”

  Cropper frowned; he'd not visited a doctor for years, and he cared little for dietary advice thrust at him via the media. When he’d been young, status symbols didn't exist as such; their nearest counterparts had been cleanliness and what was laid on the table. Cars were beyond reach; TV was in its infancy and freezers, dishwashers, microwave ovens etc. were still for dreamers.

  “So you’m trying to tell me,” he said eventually, “as these kiddies as goes down to Hereford and pays hundreds o' pounds (he paused to gulp at the extravagance) on auto-electric ovens and microwaves an' the like, is on'y doing it so they can warm beans up in 'em?

  “‘Sright,” said Fagash. “I 'eard you got to eat all the foods as your body can’t absorb, so as you craps ‘em d’rec’ly back out again. That way you stays slim and healthy.”

  “Well I’m buggered!” Cropper sighed with exasperation. “So you might as well flush the lot down pan in fust place, save bother of eating it.”

  “Better still,” suggested Fagash, “why not just chuck ‘em in dustbin right away. That would save fuel, washin' up, and everything. Or get the shops to stop selling ‘em… Or us to stop producin'!”

  Cropper beamed at the latter suggestion. “And retire us buggers off wi' a grant from common market!” Despite his flippancy, Cropper was still mystified. “In my day,” he said, “you could tell ‘ealthy bloke from the size of his stomach, and the glow of his cheeks. He wasn’t considered worthwhile unless his pantry was full.”

  “Now,” fuelled Fagash, “you’ve got to look at the index on his car, or the number o' channels on his tele.”

  Throughout the confab Greg, who'd found some relief from his pain, sat smiling, though eventually found it necessary to stem the flow.

  "Can you give me your doctor’s number, Alf?"

  "Here y'are," relied Cropper as he handed over a slip of paper he'd scribbled on during the debate.

  "Also," Greg added, "has anyone seen Wyndham?"

  “Don’t know where he’s got,” replied Fagash, “barmaid from the Griffon was after him t'other day.” The labourer paused and chuckled. “Wanted somebody to frighten 'er kids off to school.”

  Greg smiled again though made no comment before leaving the bar to ring the doctor on the pub phone. “I’ll call on Wyndham on the way back to the caravan,” he said as he left, “just to see he’s OK.”

  Greg called. Wyndham wasn’t home.

  *

  The following morning, Greg sat in the GP’s waiting room reading a dated Country Life magazine without absorbing a word. There was no formal appointment system: it was an old-school surgery where patients turned up and waited... and waited. It was cold and damp, which didn’t help Greg’s complaint; his knee seemed to be throbbing with the regularity of a metronome by that time. All night long he’d been afraid to move, even Red’s old bones clunking on the caravan floor creating enough shock waves to knock him sick.

  Greg’s impatience, together with the monotonous silence, were about to get the better of him when he was joined by an early morning drunk - a purple faced ne’er do well who belched some form of greeting as he sat near him.

  “Has he come yet?” asked the dipso, his bleary eyes squinting through layers of puffy wrinkles.

  “No idea – don't think so,” replied Greg tersely.

  “Hope he hurries up, I got wind summat terrible.”

  “Mmm,” Greg was predictably unsympathetic even though his own belly was rumbling from the effects of the previous night’s beer. Nature seemed so unfair, he reflected, for creating flatulence in situations lacking the provision to vent it.

  The drunk had no such inhibitions though: he promptly broke wind there and then, a grin spreading over his sodden face as he relished the laborious fart.

  “For attention, break wind!” he sniggered. “Guaranteed some bugger'll turn up soon as you does.” Greg said nothing as he slid away from the obnoxious man.

  “I’ll 'ave to go out for a smoke,” grunted the drunk as he slouched to the doorway, “doc give me a bollockin' for smokin' last week.”

  Thank God for that. Greg sighed as he rocked impatiently on the hard bench, polished by a thousand restless behinds before. His face lit up as the door swung open, but it wasn’t the doctor. It was a sedate old lady who for some reason refrained from entering, choosing instead to stand in the open doorway.

  "My God!” She groaned with disgust and Greg squirmed with embarrassment. “I didn’t know he still had the old coke boiler. I’ll call back when it’s caught properly.” Greg was relieved to see the door close as he pondered what action would have been appropriate.

  Hardly fitting to protest innocence in the absence of an accusation.

  Just then the door reopened, and in walked a long-haired woman with a brat in tow, both dressed in charity jumble from their appearances.

  “Por! What’s that smell, mom?” asked the lad. His mother didn’t reply, though her glare told Greg she wasn't thinking coke boilers. The three would then have sat in embarrassing silence had the youngster not produced a wooden soldier and banged it hard on the bench near Greg’s knee. The lad’s mother chose to do nothing; freedom of expression’ type from her Bohemian appearance, thought Greg

  One of those plum-in-the-mouth pseudo-intellectuals who knows bugger-all! Lives with a perma-student in granny-specs, hairy jumpers and squalor.

  “Hagley!” The lad’s mother had at last registered the grimace on Greg’s face as her son bounced the homemade soldier against the bench again. That's another thing, mused Greg, always call their kids funny names and feed 'em turnips and straw. He was in no doubt that - had he been bothered to look - he would have seen a rusty corrugated foreign car outside.

  Stodged with mouldering cords and empty goat-milk cartons no doubt.

  “Now Hagley,” said the boy’s mother calmly, “don’t damage the lovely soldier daddy made.”

  Made and laughed at. Greg glared at the mutation that was supposed to resemble a soldier. Why doesn’t she make him sit down?

  “Play nicely Hagley. There’s a good lad Hagley.”

  Bounce that soldier on my knee Hagley, and I’ll kick you over the fo’in’ moon Hagley! Greg smiled as he recalled the Scotsman. He was saved further torture as at that moment a hatch opened and he was called into the surgery.

  The doctor seemed reasonable enough; suitably abrupt, with a vague odour of alcohol and stale tobacco about him. A do as I say type, thought Greg.

  “Right - what’s the problem?” asked the doctor.

  “This.” Greg pointed to his knee. “It’s an embarrassment as well as a pain. Everyone tells me it’s an old man’s complaint.”

  “Strange thing, pain,” grunted the ageing GP, “further down your body it gets, the funnier it strikes people. If it was in your head - toothache, earache or the like, you’d get sympathy.” The doctor signalled to Greg to roll his jeans above the knee and continued:

  “Chest pains worry most folk. Stomach or back and you’re swinging the lead or somehow deserve it. From there on down it gets progressively funnier. Gout in your big toe attracts more sneers than the government of the day.” Greg had by now uncovered his swollen knee, which the doctor peered at for several seconds, as if tempted to tap it to be sure it hurt.

  “Painful?”

  Greg just sighed.

  “Swollen,” he concluded, and Greg realised this was no run-of- the-mill doctor.

  “I thought so myself,” he replied, without attempt to veil his sarcasm.

  “Could be cartilage, could be gout. Do any sports?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “Mmm. Lack of exercise; that's your problem - I’ll prescribe some painkillers. If it persists, I’ll need to send for your records and get some tests done. In the meantime cut down on rich foods. Could be uric acid; living too well. Used to say it was port and pheasant. Cut out red meats!”

  Greg laughed bitterly. The nearest he’d come to beef other than in pies ha
d been the odd Oxo cube he’d tossed into stews, though he did concede to a longing for Red’s tinned food on occasions.

  “I don’t eat much red meat - could it be something else?”

  “Drink?”

  “Yes, too much lately, I’m afraid.”

  “Me too. Roll up your sleeve.”

  Greg couldn’t believe what was happening: a doctor was actually going to check his blood pressure. He’d always regarded the sphygmomanometer as a desk ornament.

  “Look,” he said as the doctor pumped away, “I'm not after a full MOT: just painkillers.”

  The doctor ignored him. “I wasn’t taking much notice when I called you in, but is there a pseudo-intellectual bitch in the waiting room, with a smart-arsed whelp called Hagley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Huh! Intellectual indeed: know-all asked for ‘anti-bollocks’ last week - gave her a load, together with a prescription for Hagley. I'm surprised to see her again, though she's no doubt back to tell me she’s cured the little turd herself. Used some herbal concoction; weasel-vomit and nightshade or the like!” He released the gauge. “Little monster always carries a hideous wooden dick his father made. Wonder he didn’t bang your knee.”

  The doctor wrote Greg a prescription and added. “Your blood pressure’s up. Nothing drastic, but you're very tense. You need natural relaxation, not booze, but for now I want you to take these." The doctor pointed to the items on the prescription. "Beta blockers, tranquillisers - and painkillers; be careful with them - especially the tranquillisers – unless you want to be wheeled back in of course. One a day and no alcohol!”

  Greg turned as he was leaving and grinned. "Do as I say…?"

  "But definitely not as I do!"

  Greg thanked the doctor for his time and collected the prescription from a nearby pharmacy. He took a painkiller before doing his rounds and returned to The Malthouse in the hope of catching Wyndham.