by Mac Fletcher
“He’ll be OK,” assured Jaff confidently, “constitution of a mule from what I hear. And talking of constitutions, Greg, would I be right in thinking you’ll be settling down with the lady of the manor, now?”
Greg looked sheepishly at his companions. “It’s on the cards.”
“Well, I’ll give you a tip,” said Graham with a crafty wink. “See if you can get her into bed. Do you no good on that cold library floor.”
“That’s partly what killed Penmaric off,” chipped in Eddy, as Greg buried his head in his hands. “Humping from room to room like a bell hop I heard him say once... And I’ll tell you something else, Greg lad, it’s a good job she hasn't got you in the bathroom yet: your legs are far too long for Penmaric’s dolphin outfit.”
Jaff and Graham prepared to leave. “All in the course of duty, you understand.” Jaff nodded to Greg. “We’ll need to see you for a formal statement - and a few details about that passport - but I promise you won’t be locked up.”
*
“So all’s well that ends well,” said Eddy as the bar door closed. “Even I had some decent news this morning.”
“Go on,” urged Greg.
“I've managed to get an interview for a sponsored course up your way. Shropshire actually; CCTV and Surveillance. Thanks for your advice." He grinned and added sardonically: "Some of your luck might be rubbing off on me.”
“God help you, but that’s great! With your knowledge of electrics and the ticket you should find work up that way." Greg paused, having remembered something. "I'm digressing somewhat, and it all seems secondary now, but did you speak to Elaine about the car reg. I gave you?”
"Not yet, but I haven't forgotten. I've settled my resentment now, so I hope you get to settle yours." Eddy's fixed stare assured Greg that he meant what he said. "Bit more news by the way: I might have a job up there too. If I get it, I'll be doing some security work for an ageing rocker up there. Paddy Benton – heard of him?"
"I thought he'd have drunk himself to death by now. Brilliant - always has been - but he's going down the tubes fast from all accounts."
"I'll just be a glorified roadie-cum-minder I reckon, but I'll have a roof while I'm learning. He's easy about the course." Eddy opened the counter-flap and began collecting empties. "Before I forget by the way, there was a youth asking for you t'other day. Didn't seem sure if he was in the right area, but he told me he was after someone named Greg, so who could he have meant but you? I never said much though - you never know." Eddy paused and winked as he put the glasses in the washer. "But when he said the bloke he was after was a miserable bastard I knew it was you."
Greg smiled. "Did he say who he was?"
"Cassidy - Charles Cassidy, had a lovely young lady called Tammy with him. They were very interested in having a chat… with you of all folk…"
"Was he a seedy young junky dressed like a refugee?"
"Seemed like a nice kid, actually. Looked reasonably healthy and was dressed as well as us. Not that we're much of an example, mind."
"Not the same bloke then. Where was he from?"
"Here you are." Eddy took a note from the high shelf behind the bar. "Tavistock. He must not own a phone; he's put his girlfriend's number down as contact."
"Okay." Greg pocketed the address. "I'll ring to see what it's about."
"Cheers. You won't know what to do with yourself now all this lot's cleared up, mate."
"I'm not sure it is all cleared up," replied Greg. "With due respect to Jaff and Graham, there seem to be a few gaps in their knowledge; hope I'm wrong."
Bart duly arrived with the paintings and the ‘van, so after learning that Fergal was off the critical list, Greg relaxed for an hour before returning to the cabin. After he’d eaten, and before leaving for the House again, he told Jan he might be marrying Sarah.
"All being well,” he added, “I'll have plenty of time for the cafe of course.” Jan made little comment: she wasn’t surprised, and any anguish she might have felt was well concealed.
Greg had left the cabin before she burst into tears: Jan wasn’t given to crying openly; she’d had her share of past disappointments, and there was no way she would allow Greg to see how upset she was. Jamie was watching a cartoon in his room, so the only company she had was Red, who loped awkwardly over and put his floppy paws on the settee. He craned his long neck and tried to lick away her tears.
“Stop it Red,” she said and, half-laughing, half-crying, cradled the dog’s head between her hands, pressing her tear-soaked cheek against his muzzle. “At least he’ll be here, Red,” she said gently, “and not wandering about all over the place. Least we can keep an eye on him.” Jan had never kidded herself that her feelings would be returned. Why should he fancy me - an unmarried mother, and no great beauty at that?
*
Cyril and Fergal slowly recovered as the days wore on, and eventually even Hud and Ten returned ignominiously. Curiously unwilling to account for their absence, they'd baffled police for days.
They'd been found – following an anonymous tip-off – a short distance from a stolen Porsche, yet were unable to explain what mode of transport had conveyed them there. There was no trace of either on the Porsche, yet a stolen Nissan over thirty miles away was smothered in both men's prints, and a few miles further on, a man bemoaning the loss of the Nissan was also interviewed. To add confusion, still further along the road two wrecked cars were discovered - one an undocumented Mercedes bearing both men's prints. Yet an injured man lying amid the carnage was unable - or unwilling - to account for his wounds … or the damage to the vehicles.
Most baffling of all though was that the hapless pair had been in possession of a number of pictures, most of which were scorched, or worthless, or both. The only exception had been an oil masterpiece of reasonable value, reported stolen from a house near the boot-sale Greg had visited… On hearing the news, Greg's only comment was that he'd "sensed that the vendor was keen to unload the gear."
Fergal continued to improve, though his restoration to normality involved arduous therapeutic and psychiatric expertise - largely down to staff's ignorance of the sub-normality of the patient prior to admittance.
Eventually Fergal did get better, though he never, to anyone’s knowledge, operated a road drill single-handedly again. He did return to tabloids, however, though it cast no shadow on his treatment. A notable plus was flagged up, however, when his sudden ability to solve the name game (the stringing together of celebrities' initials to name yet another celebrity) was noted.
“That’s very good Fergal,” commented Eddy on checking his answer one day. “I’ve never even heard of this Enderby Ghedddder.”
Cyril Gorby, in his hospital bed, had been oddly relieved to learn of Hud’s return, and had begun a miraculous recovery after the rogue had visited him. The reason for his improvement didn’t become apparent until he visited the Holly Tree on leaving hospital - whereupon he was quizzed by Eddy.
"Why so chirpy, Cyril?”
Gorby explained how he'd lost hope when his insurance company had refused to pay up for his car. He'd regained it only after Hud agreed to recycle the wreckage, and recovered completely on delivery of the revamped Lada. Resisting the urge to laugh, Eddy had accompanied Cyril to the car park to inspect the hybrid.
“No one should fear a country that can produce one of these,” remarked the barman on inspection of the bizarre vehicle. "I think they've overdone the hammer and sickle motif and ‘Cyril and Vilma’ sunshield, though."
"Sarcastic bastard! Hud's not that tacky."
"No? Any MOT by the way – ‘cos when my mate inquired, Hud offered him a lifetime of MOTs for an extra fifty quid.”
“Guaranteed MOT for life?” replied Cyril, somewhat aggrieved he'd not been informed of the offer. "How could he do that?”
“Crafty sod really – after he'd coughed, my mate got a pile of blank certificates and a box o' biros. Hud promised even more certs as soon as InkRite delivered his new cartridge. "You an
d Wheeler could try that with DIY funerals. Fifty nicker for a bin-liner and a tin o' maggots”
“Piss-takin' prat!”
Gorby's recovery turned out to be short-lived, however, the following day Ivor Wheeler made his first appearance since the event and reported that Cyril had been re-admitted to hospital.
“Re-occurrence of his blockage problem,” informed Wheeler.
“Lost the will to crap 'as he?” roared Bart.
“He'll soon get it back if his wife siz them photos,” added Simon, “very like end up wi' terminal shits.”
"It was the photo’s as brought on his condition," confided lizard-man, who went on to report that Vilma had seen the photo’s - and hadn’t been the same since. She'd returned from Cyril’s mate's house, nostrils flared, jaundiced eyes ablaze, mortified at the indignity Cyril had brought on her.
"I heard about it," added Eddy dryly, “Said she wouldn’t have minded if the tit hadn’t insisted on puttin' the prints in an album for her. Apparently he asked whether she'd used auto mode or not."
"Never know whether to believe you," hissed Wheeler.
"It's true, she had to tell him the subject wasn’t Cyril though - can’t imagine why he'd have thought Vilma so lucky.”
Despite her rants, it further transpired that Cyril had found the photos beneath Vilma’s pillow that evening, though the advantage he scored could never counter her indignation.
"What about last week, when you turned up covered in a muddy dog-blanket, with that lizard-faced little snot-rag in tow?"
“Never mind the whys and bloody wherefores!” the dithering Cyril had fumed, “bad enough that we've spent half the night squelching round the bay with a pair of rotties tryin' to shag our legs!"
As with most notable events, the tales were elaborated to the point where fact became obscured by fantasy as the saga entered into local folklore.
*
A day or so later, Greg had decided to stay in and get an early night, and was about to watch a TV film when he remembered he'd not yet contacted the youth from Tavistock.
"Hello," he said as a young lady answered. "My name's Greg, Greg Alison; are you Tammy?"
"Oh yes, thanks so much for ringing…" She hesitated. "It was you who brought Cass back from Spain?"
"It seems so." Greg had no issue with Tammy, but couldn't imagine why she, less still Cass, would want to speak to him. "Is he there?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not. Look, I don't want to say too much over the phone, but he entered rehab yesterday. As you no doubt gathered from your journey, Cass is an addict. He's been clean since he got back from Spain - apart from prescribed drugs, but he desperately wants to get sorted once and for all. He's to be placed on a recovery programme, an important part of which is to make amends to people he might have hurt."
"Mmm." Greg was unable to see where Tammy was leading.
"Well, he told me his attitude towards you was dreadful. He was smoking dope in the car he says?"
"It's in the past now," said Greg, "but I'm still angry that he put me in jeopardy, whatever his reasons, and I'm puzzled as to how he wheedled his way in with drug squad."
"Look," said Tammy, "I can't say much now, but he did a deal with them. That's why he wants to see you: he has a dreadful guilt complex over it. Can we come and see you when he's out of rehab?"
"You'll be welcome any time, Tammy, but if I was Cass I'd let sleeping dogs lie. I'm not sure how much you've heard, but the drug runners are either dead or locked up. My advice to him would be to keep his head down and get himself straight."
"I'll see what he says, then," said Tammy with some disappointment. "But if he still wants to talk, just to make amends, can we get you on that number?"
"Well ye-es," Greg looked at the inferior mobile Eddy had supplied, warts, cracked case and all. "I'll be changing this phone in the next day or so, but I'll text you the new number."
"Thanks Greg, hope you didn’t mind us looking you up?"
"It isn't a problem if it helps Cass recover. I do mean that."
Chapter Twenty
A week had passed since Greg’s return; it was Saturday lunchtime and things had almost returned to normal. Greg seemed to have settled in at the manor, and little had been seen of him during the week.
"We was wonderin' if you'd still speak to us now you'm up at big 'ouse," said Bart as Greg entered the pub. He placed a note on the bar for drinks. "Tek for the round, Eddy."
Bart and Simon were still smiling, having relayed, for the umpteenth time, the story of how they'd imprisoned Stubbs in his own cell.
“The best is,” added Eddy as he served Greg, “the only chance Stubbs ever had of making a name for himself - the biggest thing that’s ever likely to happen in Trevelly - and he spent the time in his own cell!”
The barman paused and called Greg to one side.
"The Sillemmi brothers, or Slimies I call 'em: your wife's debt collectors. Evil Tunisian crooks with previous for all sorts, including pimping and drug peddling. I'll text their details to you, save saying any more in here...." Eddy paused and looked out onto the car-park. "Looks like some other friends have found you out, mate."
"So they have. Thanks for that Eddy." Greg looked out to see a young lady locking her car and following Cass towards the entrance.
"Hello." Greg put down his drink but remained standing as the pair entered. "I thought you were going to ring?" He shook hands and drew the couple over to a corner of the bar. "Do you want to talk here? It's not very private, I'm afraid."
"Come through to the living quarters," called Eddy. "Vi wouldn't mind if she was about."
"Fine by me," replied Greg.
"Does Eddy want to join us?" asked Cass. "I'd prefer it."
"No problem with me," agreed Eddy. "Watch the bar for me lads, but don't overdo the freebies."
"Right," said Cass quietly, almost shyly, as they seated themselves in the living quarters. "The first thing I must put on the table is that I'm now a registered drug addict on release from a detox clinic. I've been clean for almost a month..."
"That's brilliant; it's great to see you looking so well," said Greg. "I wouldn't have the transformation possible in the time, but you've no need to dwell on your addiction; certainly not for me."
"I know, but I'm happier doing it." Greg watched Cass smile for the first time since he'd met him, and it was significant that Tammy grinned anxiously at the same time, probably in anticipation of Cass's following words. "But I need you to listen for a few minutes. I swear it won't take long."
"Point taken." Greg said no more: he could almost feel Cass's nerves jangling.
"Well firstly my recovery programme requires me to make amends. I don't have to break my neck, but I want to get it over. I know you weren't exactly Mr Personality during our journey, Greg, but I was horrible - inconsiderate and deceitful."
"But…"
Cass held up his hand. "No, I was deceitful. You must know by now that I had drugs in the back, and worse still that I left you to carry the can - literally. I'll be honest and admit I couldn't believe my luck when you made me get out of the car before border control. I dreaded carrying the consignment through even though I'd struck a deal with drugs squad: I don't have complete faith in anyone yet, and I'm not sure I ever will." Greg nodded as Cass went on to explain how he'd become a fugitive in Spain "rather than a castaway," and how he'd survived and supported his habit by sleeping rough and doing menial work – as well as thieving. He'd reached a stage, he admitted, where he was considering returning home to face the music, when along came an extraordinary opportunity.
"I had a call on my mobile in the middle of the night, which was a shock in itself, because I hadn't used it in months. The only reason it was charged was because I'd considered calling Tammy here, and I only answered because I felt sure it was her." Cass paused, recalling his horror on being informed it was a drug squad officer from the UK. "I felt immediately that he must be genuine; I'd bought the handset in Spain and never actually
used it, so only someone with their methods could have linked me with that number: At first I denied my identity - said I'd found the phone. But the caller stopped me in my tracks, insisting he wanted to help! Firstly, he said it might be possible to get me back home without the threat of prison. I still didn't trust him and continued to lie - till he described my exact location and said he could get me rolled up by Spanish police within minutes. I knew then he was serious." Cass paused to light a cigarette and take a long draught from his beer. "Then I saw the positive side. I know first-hand what drugs and dealers do to folks' lives. I'm really bitter about it and any chance to help in the downfall of traffickers constituted a form of revenge - though I can't pretend regaining my freedom didn't play an even larger part. Anyway, I still refused to trust him, so he arranged to come and see me. Turned up a few days later on a twenty-four hour return flight, and I met him near Barcelona airport. I was in a dreadful state as you know but I liked the bloke, and he had all the cred. Said all I'd have to do would be to accompany an under-surveillance consignment back to Plymouth. On completion I'd be collected and taken to a recovery clinic, my record would be clean and the drugs would be confiscated by police. All that did happen."
"He must have wanted something in return, though?" interrupted Greg.
"Pics, and names, for identification was all he asked. It all seemed so plausible, especially when he explained they were in it for the long haul, not instant arrests."
"So that was why you were taking snaps like a Japanese tourist?" asked Greg who'd listened patiently and was reluctant to interrupt. "Where was the problem?"
"The guy I met back in Plymouth was straight enough, and everything went to plan. He even went into the clinic with me. It wasn't until just over a week ago…"
Cass hesitated and looked at Tammy opposite.
"I was visiting Cass when I got a picture-message from a girl at NA," continued Tammy. "It was a selfie - her and another girl from the group. Daft really; sort of junk you see on Facebook, but there was a guy in the background who Cass recognized immediately…"