Time to Pay

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘Had a good day, honey?’ Eve asked in a fake American accent, reaching up to kiss Gideon as he met her in the sitting-room doorway. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Ooh, you have a distinct aroma of horse about you. Shall I run you a bath?’

  ‘Thank you, and one of those,’ he added, indicating the glass of red wine she held.

  She tutted and shook her head. ‘I’m giving you bad habits. It’ll be AA before you know it.’

  Their evening together was interrupted by two telephone calls.

  The first was Gideon’s sister, Naomi.

  ‘Hi, big bruv!’

  ‘Hello. I was just talking about you earlier.’

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘I’m . . . fine. We’ve been very busy, as usual.’

  Something in her voice caught his attention.

  ‘OK. So what’s the big news?’

  ‘Oh, you wretch!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can never surprise you, can I?’

  ‘Well, you might. I don’t know what it is yet.’

  ‘Well, how would you feel if I said you were going to be Uncle Gideon in seven and a half months’ time?’

  ‘Naomi! How wonderful. Congratulations! I’d be thrilled to be Uncle Gideon.’

  They talked for another ten minutes or so before Naomi rang off, saying she had other people to call.

  ‘I’ll ring back in a day or two. I just wanted you to be the first to know,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I really think you should tell Tim next,’ Gideon joked. ‘OK. Speak soon, sis. Bye.’

  He sat for a moment with a smile on his face before returning to Eve in the sitting room.

  ‘That was my sister, Naomi,’ he said, gesturing over his shoulder, as if she had actually been in the hall.

  ‘Yes, I heard. I gather congratulations are in order, and looking at your face, there’s no need to ask if you’re pleased.’

  ‘It’s great news!’ Gideon said. ‘You ought to meet Naomi. You’d like her. And Tim.’

  ‘Ah. Meet the family,’ Eve said, pursing her lips. ‘Must be getting serious. More wine?’

  ‘Think I might have a coffee,’ Gideon decided. ‘Can I get you one?’

  ‘Nope. I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy, and I have no intention of spoiling it.’

  Five minutes later, lying diagonally across the sofa with Eve close beside him and Bruch’s Violin Concerto on the CD player, Gideon took a sip of his coffee and sighed contentedly.

  ‘You’re really stoked about your sister’s baby, aren’t you?’ Eve said suddenly.

  ‘Mm. It’s great news,’ Gideon murmured.

  After a long pause, she asked, ‘Do you want kids, yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, one day.’

  Eve lay very still and silent within the circle of his arm and, after a moment, he kissed the back of her head.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No, just thinking.’

  ‘So how was your dinner date last night?’

  ‘OK,’ she replied.

  ‘An old friend, you said . . .’

  ‘Yeah, Trevor. Met him when I was married to Ralph. He’s an artist, too.’

  ‘Oh? Competition.’

  ‘Not really. He paints huge canvases with lots of colours and gives them pretentious names like Solitude and Serendipity.’

  Gideon tilted his head to look down at her.

  ‘Don’t you like them?’

  ‘They’re OK, but they’re not genuine.’

  ‘What do you mean? They’re copies?’

  She waggled her head.

  ‘No. I mean his motives are purely mercenary. He slaps paint on with no real thought. Sometimes he lines up a dozen canvases and does them all at the same time – walking along the row and doing a different splodge on each, then changing the colour and going along again. He can do a dozen in half an hour. But the thing is, he’s fashionable. He has maybe two exhibitions a year and always sells out. People pay tens of thousands!’

  Gideon was impressed. ‘So he only needs to work a few days a year. He’s got it made.’

  ‘He’s laughing at them,’ Eve complained. ‘There’s no integrity.’

  ‘You can’t blame him, though.’

  ‘I suppose not. The shame of it is that he’s actually a very talented artist, when he puts his mind to it.’

  Gideon had another sip of coffee.

  ‘I wondered if he was an old flame, come to reclaim you . . .’

  A sharp elbow in his midriff was his answer, and then the phone rang again.

  ‘Oh, God. It’s nearly eleven. Why don’t you just leave it?’ she suggested.

  ‘For that very reason. It might be trouble; Pippa or Tilly.’ He slid her weight off him and went out to the hall.

  ‘Is that Gideon Blake?’ A male voice, with a slight West Country burr.

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘Arthur Willis. A friend tells me you sort out horses.’

  ‘That’s right; sometimes,’ Gideon said cautiously.

  ‘Oh, I hope you can help me. It’s my daughter’s pony, see. My wife says he has to go but Katy, she loves that pony. It’d break her heart if he had to go!’

  ‘What’s the problem with the pony?’ Gideon asked.

  ‘It’s unpredickable, see?’ Arthur Willis said. ‘Mostly he’s as good as can be but sometimes he turns really nasty, and we don’t know why. My wife’s afraid Katy’ll get hurt. Couldn’t you just come and have a look? It’d break her heart if we had to get rid of him, poor little mite. My friend says you’ll be able to tell what’s wrong.’

  ‘Well, I might, but I can’t promise,’ Gideon said, wondering who the ‘friend’ was and wishing they had been less fulsome. ‘All right, I’ll come and take a look. When did you have in mind?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Katy’s off school tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’ Gideon took details of the pony’s whereabouts, arranged to call the following afternoon at two and put down the receiver with the man’s heartfelt thanks ringing in his ear.

  ‘You’re a pushover,’ Eve murmured sleepily, when he slid back onto the sofa beside her.

  ‘Tell me about it. But when it’s some kid’s pony . . .’

  ‘You’re a pushover,’ she reiterated firmly. ‘Now how about I get some attention for a change?’

  10

  GIDEON DROVE THE Land Rover down the long bumpy track that led to Arthur Willis’ rented field, his mind dwelling on his relationship with Eve.

  They had fallen into bed just after midnight and, after a brief spell of passion, had lain languorous and content, watching the stars through the bedroom window and talking in the desultory fashion of lovers everywhere.

  This morning she had been up before him, bright and cheerful, showering and getting breakfast for them both, before roaring off in her Aston Martin to open the gallery at ten. Gideon had kissed her goodbye with affection, thinking how simple it would be to drift on in this easy-come, easy-go fashion for another twenty years, but as soon as the thought came, he knew that it wasn’t enough. Last night in the passionate darkness it had been enough, and even as they lay basking in the afterglow it was enough, but in the morning, facing the new day, there was something missing.

  There always was.

  Arthur Willis’daughter’s pony lived, with several others, in a large, rough-looking, overgrazed field that appeared to double up as a graveyard for used cars and unwanted farm machinery.

  Shaking his head in amazement that any animal could live amongst such an array of twisted metal and trailing barbed wire without mortally injuring itself within the first five minutes, Gideon wandered along the row of adjacent semi-derelict buildings, peering through the grimy windowpanes to try and make out something of their original purpose.

  The first had sagging double wooden doors facing back down the track, and held, as far as he could see, an old Land Rover, no doubt quietly rusting into oblivion. The next few had half doors, like stables, and he opened one to find it full of m
ouldering cardboard boxes and plastic crates. Another contained a few opened sacks of horse feed and several bales of hay, which smelled musty, even from a distance. At the far end of the row was a bigger building with a locked door. He couldn’t see a lot through the dirty, cobwebby glass, but he got the impression of a largely empty space with a high ceiling and some form of pulley or winch mechanism by one wall.

  He turned away, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. Looking back at the Land Rover, he could see Zebedee’s face watching him soulfully through the passenger window.

  The field was pretty isolated, situated as it was well back from the road, and the nearest habitation Gideon could see was the back of what looked like a council estate, a couple of hundred yards away to his left, beyond some water meadows.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Two fifteen. He’d been a little late himself, but Willis was later. So much for his desperation the evening before.

  It was cloudy and a cold wind whistled round the deserted outbuildings. Gideon began to feel a little annoyed.

  From the description he’d been given over the phone, Gideon guessed that Katy Willis’ pony was the rather poorly put together bay that was grazing in the middle of the field, side by side with an equally weedy-looking grey. Beyond watching him from under its shaggy forelock, it showed little interest in Gideon’s presence and, looking at the poached ground and pools of muddy water on the other side of the fence, Gideon had no inclination to venture any closer.

  He decided to give Arthur Willis ten more minutes, and contemplated fetching his gloves from the car.

  It was Zebedee who alerted him to the fact that company had showed up. All of a sudden he started barking furiously, the whole Land Rover rocking with the energy of his efforts.

  Gideon walked back along the row of buildings towards the vehicle, where he would get a view of the track.

  ‘That’s enough!’ he said sharply to the dog, thumping on the bodywork as he passed. ‘Quiet now!’

  Zebedee took not a shred of notice.

  He had his back to Gideon and his tail was windmilling as his front paws jumped with each bark.

  ‘Zeb, be quiet!’ Gideon told him again, looking down the empty track. ‘There’s no-one there.’

  He was wrong.

  As he passed the rear of the Land Rover, a figure stepped out from the cover of the end wall to stand in his path. His face nightmarishly distorted by a stocking mask, he was holding what looked like a baseball bat in one gloved hand, and thumping it menacingly into the palm of the other.

  He didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t really have to.

  For a moment Gideon froze, immobilised by shock, and in that instant he heard the tiniest sound of a displaced pebble behind him, and two strong arms closed round his torso, trapping his own in a powerful hug that was entirely lacking in affection.

  Gathering his wits, Gideon threw his head back forcefully, aiming for his attacker’s nose. It was a manoeuvre that had worked well for him once before, but this guy was canny and had his head well out of the way so that he only succeeded in jarring his own neck.

  His next effort, that of kicking back sharply at the man’s shin, was more successful but rewarded by a fist pummelling into his lower ribs on his right-hand side.

  It was like being hit by a battering ram. Gideon was a powerful man himself, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been punched, but it was without a doubt the hardest. He grunted as the breath left his lungs and his legs turned instantly to jelly. His attacker grabbed him again, keeping him on his feet.

  ‘Hold him.’ The man with the bat stepped forward and Gideon raised his head to look at him, trying to make out his features underneath the dark nylon. He’d plainly been set up, but by whom? Just at the moment, though, he was finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the almost mesmeric thwacking of the satiny blue bat into the leather-gloved palm.

  What was intended?

  Not my knees! Gideon thought with a flutter of panic. Almost anything but that . . .

  Smack . . . Smack . . . Smack . . .

  The man was just a matter of inches away now, and Gideon could smell stale tobacco smoke on his clothes. He stopped and raised the bat until it was rubbing gently against Gideon’s face.

  Inwardly quaking, Gideon tried to keep his eyes steady on the flattened nose and shadowed eyes of his tormentor’s masked face, desperate to maintain his pride, at least.

  On the edge of his vision he was very aware of the shiny smooth surface of the bat next to his left eye. Suddenly it lifted a little and then cracked painfully, but not dangerously, against his cheekbone.

  Gideon couldn’t help flinching, which appeared to amuse the man behind him.

  ‘Go on. ’It him again!’

  His mate, though, had more practical issues on his mind.

  ‘No. We should get him inside. I don’t like it here; we’re too exposed.’

  ‘Awright, well, let’s get on with it then. He’s a big bloke, I’m not sure how long I can ’old him like this.’

  ‘You’d fuckin’ better!’ the other man warned.

  To Gideon’s surprise, the man in front of him discarded his weapon, dropping it behind him, where it rolled a short way and then stopped. From his jacket pocket he then took out a polythene bag from which he drew a pad of white cloth, and Gideon’s nostrils were immediately assailed by a pungent chemical aroma. He began to writhe, guessing what was on the cards.

  ‘You might enjoy this – the kids seem to,’ the man said and, stepping to one side, clamped the hand with the cloth in it over Gideon’s mouth and nose.

  Gideon made a Herculean effort to break free of his captor, but with his arms imprisoned at his sides his struggles were ineffective, and his attempt to hold his breath was short-lived.

  ‘Come on, you bastard, breathe!’ the man with the cloth muttered, and jabbed his fist into Gideon’s stomach. It wasn’t a heavy blow but it was enough to make him gasp, and the damage was done.

  The first deep inhalation sent his head spinning and brought tears to his eyes. He gagged, coughed, and necessarily inhaled again, feeling the thick spirit-laden air burn down into his lungs, seeming to permeate all his senses and rob him of the power of reasoning.

  After several more suffocating lungfuls, the sudden rush of euphoria caught him by surprise, lifting him on a tide of well-being, and his head tipped back, eyes open to the sky. Up there, something was circling: large, dark green – a dragon.

  There were two now. Huge, predatory; gliding slowly round and round as they searched for their prey. He needed to make for cover before they saw him, but though he struggled, he couldn’t move.

  They weren’t dragons, they were aeroplanes – bigger than ocean liners, with cartoon propellers. All those people; where were they going? It puzzled him for a while but then he realised he didn’t care. Let them go . . . They were no friends of his. He didn’t need them because he was floating; he could fly. Soon he’d be up there with the dragons, riding them out over the sea towards the sunset, where the sky was crimson and gold, and stars burned brightly, calling him on . . .

  Gideon’s head was a chaos of noise and colour, swirling and shifting like a sandstorm. Slowly the vivid hues separated into blotches that turned darker and receded and he became aware that something was burning into his arms, starting at his wrists and tearing all the way up to his shoulders and back. He felt heavy, like lead; as though the earth was trying to drag him down and swallow him.

  The drenching, ice-cold water was a shock that made Gideon’s heart miss a beat. It hit him in the face and chest, cascading over his head and down his body in a single deluge, running off his hair and soaking through his clothes.

  Gasping, he shook his head and opened his eyes. The water ran in, making him blink rapidly.

  He was indoors but the light was very poor, and when he tried to focus on his surroundings everything distorted as if viewed through a fish-eye lens, stretching and pulling both vertical
ly and horizontally as he moved his eyes.

  With the return to some sort of consciousness, he found that he was hanging suspended by his wrists, though when he tried to tilt his head back to see what held him, his vision broke up in a haze of dizziness and nausea.

  He shut his eyes and groaned, fighting the sickness.

  ‘’E don’t look so happy now, do ’e?’ someone observed; the voice indistinct, as though under water. ‘P’raps he’d like another bath . . .’

  This time the water hit Gideon from behind but he was ready for it and the shock was diminished. In fact, the wash of cold cleared his spinning head and took the edge off the nausea, so he was able to open his eyes and make some sense of his situation.

  The room was lit only by a smallish window in the wall facing him, and an even smaller one, high in the wall to his left. Dusty cobwebs festooned the windows and hung in grey clumps from the rafters, blowing gently in the breeze from the doorway. The ragged-bottomed door stood open a couple of inches, allowing a sliver of light to illuminate the floor, where uneven quarry tiles were visible here and there through the filth. The space was unfurnished, unless one counted a pile of broken wooden pallets stacked against the side wall, and a raised concrete dais supporting the rusting metal wheels and cogs of some kind of winching mechanism.

  With a start, Gideon’s memory came back. He’d peered into this building from the outside. He’d come to look at a pony – except he hadn’t. There had never been a problem with the pony; it had been an elaborate trap and, unprepared, he’d fallen for it.

  What had they used on him? His head was pounding heavily and the remnants of the hallucinations still fogged up his thought processes, making it difficult to separate reality from fantasy . . .

  They.

  Where were they now?

  He turned his head awkwardly between his upstretched arms and came face to masked face with one of the men, not six inches away but only at Gideon’s chest level.

  ‘Boo!’ the man said, and laughed, giving Gideon the benefit of his disgustingly bad breath.

  Gideon grimaced and turned his head away in revulsion.

  The water continued to drip off him and he became aware that he was extremely cold. His jacket had gone, as had his shirt, leaving him in nothing but jeans and a tee shirt. Not exactly adequate for a cold spring day, even had he not just been drenched in freezing water. As a defence mechanism, his body began to shudder.