They chatted on, totally at ease in each other’s company. Munching on provisions purchased when they set out, they were able to make good progress and the early winter darkness almost took them by surprise. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon when they reached their stopping-place for the night.
14
They had been advised by Theeth to stay at a B&B called Paradise View. They found it without too much trouble, on the corner of a small street of terraced houses, although at first viewing it did not show any signs of living up to its name. The paintwork on the bay windows was shabby and flaking, the front door was in need of repair and the whole place was a desperate plea for a lick of paint and some general TLC. A woebegone “VACANCIES” notice in the front window did nothing to inspire further confidence. The faded sign above the door bore the name of the establishment and, underneath, the legend: Proprietor: S. Flounders. “Nothing about licensed to sell drinks”, Gareth noticed with some concern. Even more worrying was a sticker announcing that “Jesus saves!” although the effect of this startling announcement was modified considerably by the fact that some wag had scrawled underneath: “but Rush tucks home the rebound.” This brightened Gareth up more than somewhat and he was grinning cheerfully as they opened the front door and headed towards a small desk glorified by a lighted sign saying: “Reception”. Silly boy! He was soon to be disabused.
A large red-haired woman in an ill-fitting lilac-coloured two-piece rose to greet them. Underneath the suit, a voluminous flowery red blouse did its unequal best to contain a huge sagging bosom. Gareth was immediately reminded of Mothers’ Union meetings that Betty had held on occasion in the hallowed front room. “Best china and all that, don’t you know!” Brian used to whisper conspiratorially to him. He remembered in particular one woman with the mysterious epithet “Enrolling Member”, treated with great respect by the other ladies. Mrs fforbes, he seemed to recall, that was her name. The apparition in front of him now both looked and sounded like that bygone memory.
“Welcome dears, welcome. I’m Sue, Sue Flounders. It’s lovely to have you both with us. No doubt you’ll be tired after your long journey.” The unconvincing patter had a ring of insincerity about it. “You must be Gareth and you are obviously Elizabeth. Would you like to sign the register for me? Not married, are you? Hmm, as I thought. Fagan—that’s an interesting name. Jewish, are you?”
“Half-Jewish—is that a problem?” It was the first time Gareth had seen Beth anywhere close to irritation. “My father’s a lapsed Irish Catholic, if that’s any help.”
“Catholic Jew? Now there’s an unusual combination. Anything else we need to know about you, dear?” The condescension was palpable.
“Yes. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Oh! Oh dear! This isn’t a five-star hotel, you know. We don’t do special menus. You’ll have what you’re given and like it. And it’s a Friday. I don’t think we do much in the line of vegetarian Kosher fish dishes, I’m afraid.” The sarcasm hung on the air like an ill-digested suet pudding. Beth was quick to respond.
“Yes. It’s pretty obvious that this place quite clearly isn’t the height of luxury. We can always go and eat elsewhere, if it’s too much trouble.” She could feel her heckles rising. “I’d hate to think we were putting you out in any way.” Her sharp reply ricocheted off the heavy atmosphere in front of the for once rather contrived smile.
Gareth took her arm. “It’s ok, Beth. It’s ok.” For a change it was his turn to smile a winning smile. “We’ll be quite happy to eat here, Mrs Flounders. I’m sure the cuisine is excellent.”
Mrs Flounders was immediately mollified. “The food here does have a certain cachet, though I say it myself. Now, I’ll put you in number 12, on the second floor, Elizabeth, dear, and you can have number 3, Gareth, on the first floor. I’m sure you’ll both be very comfortable.”
“Erm, we were rather hoping we might be able to share a room,” Gareth said, with the air of a man who knows he is embarking on a futile mission.
“Share? Share?” Mrs Flounders sounded as though she had been asked to split the atom. “My dear young man, this is not some sleazy sex club I am running here. This is a respectable establishment. What would my other guests think if I started letting double rooms out to all and sundry?”
“All and su… ?” Beth was spluttering with rage. I’d have you know I.”
“We’ll be quite happy to take the rooms on offer” Gareth intervened, the warm smile pouring oil on troubled waters once again. “After all, it’s only for one night.”
“I should think so, too. You young people, at it like rabbits. No wonder the world is in such a mess. Flounders is lucky if he does his conjugal duties once a week at the most, and he’s all the better for it!”
At that moment, almost as though he had been waiting for his cue, a small thin man with a bedraggled moustache and a perhaps understandably melancholy expression appeared at the dragon’s elbow. A dishevelled apron with the legend Chief cook and bottle-washer emblazoned on it in loud green letters announced his standing in the establishment.
“Ah, here he is. Two more for dinner, Flounders, as expected,” she barked,” And this young lady’s a… vegetarian.” She almost spat the words out in disgust, “Amongst other things,” she went on to mutter under her breath.
“That’s fine. I’ll see what I can do.” The diminutive spouse smiled an unexpectedly warm smile and went on to say: “I’m sorry I can’t help you with your luggage. I’ve got a bad back, you see.”
“We’ll be fine,” Gareth smiled back. “Do you have many other guests here at the moment?”
“Just the one—Mr. Lamprey. He’ll be in soon, I expect. We’re always quiet before Christmas,” the landlady added defensively but in a way that suggested they would be full to bursting over the festive period. “Let me give you the keys to your rooms.”
The young couple quickly made their way up the stairs—there was no lift, of course. Gareth dropped his rucksack outside his room, before accompanying Beth to her chamber. It was, at best, sparse. A single lumpy mattress on an iron bedstead, a chair and a small wardrobe were the only furnishings provided, with a chipped washbasin against one wall.
“No trendy ensuite, then,” said Beth ruefully. “Not even a toilet. It must be down the corridor. Still, at least it looks clean enough.”
“I suppose Theeth has his reasons for wanting us to stay here. It’s not exactly the lap of luxury, though, is it?” He put his arms round Beth and she raised her lips to his.
“I don’t suppose you fancy a bit of…?”
“Gareth! We can’t. Not here! I wouldn’t put it past her to come checking on us!”
Sure enough, there was a sharp knock on the door. They disentangled themselves and Beth went to answer. Mrs Flounders’ large nose and gimlet eyes entered the room, followed by the rest of her not inconsiderable frame. “Just making sure you’re settling in, dears. Dinner is at seven. No doubt you’ll be wanting to go to your own room, now.” She glared at Gareth in a hostile way, daring him to take up the cudgels. But Gareth was still enjoying his role as peacemaker. “Yes, of course.” That beatific smile again, to which his hostess had no response. “See you at dinner, Beth. Anywhere we can get a drink round here?” he enquired.
“I take it you mean an alcoholic beverage. No, as I have already told you, this a respectable hotel. We do not ply our guests with alcohol. There is a public house in the village, but I would not recommend it. I would go so far as to say it is a den of iniquity. I allow Flounders to go there on a Friday night but he only goes to play dominoes. He does not partake of the demon drink. He knows what would happen to him if he did.” The grimness of tone made it appear certain that the aforementioned Mr F would be cast into the darkest pit of damnation were he to transgress in any way. “And we lock up at 9 o’clock, so it would not be worth your going out anyway.” The note of trium
ph indicated that the topic of conversation was at a close. Gareth grinned at Beth and blew her a kiss as he took his leave.
His own room, situated above the kitchen if the smells were anything to go by, and with a tantalising view of a brick wall, was equipped in similar fashion to Beth’s. “At least she’s got a view,” he muttered to himself as he went off down the corridor in search of the bathroom. “Should be a fun evening.”
15
In a dingy terraced house in South London, opposite the Elephant and Castle, the light was on in the downstairs front room. Had you been able to peep through the drawn curtains, you would have seen three figures sitting round a table. The first was a tall, somewhat vague-looking young man in his late twenties, his distinctly supercilious air accentuated by his state-of-the-art spectacles, half-moon and rimless. His rather fatuous expression was emphasised further by a cut-glass accent, which was definitely out of place in the shabby surroundings.
“But I don’t understand, yah? Why can’t we gather a load of chaps together and just bloody well wipe the whole bally lot out, what? Just exterminate the varmints!”
“It does not work in that way, Oliver.” Pierre Poivre spoke with the patient tone of a mother talking to a stroppy two-year-old. “Only you, Breakers, can eliminate Custodians, otherwise there is nothing gained. Only Goblins can eliminate Gnomes. As I have told you before, there are only two of you and two of them available. I must admit they have re-grouped more quickly than I had anticipated, but I am convinced that we will be more than capable of dealing with them.” He bestowed a grimly satisfied smirk on his two companions.
Pierre Poivre was of similar appearance to Theeth—the same sallow skin and pointed nose, the same black eyes, although on closer observation they were rather closer together and had a distinctly malicious gleam. His head was rather smaller and his ears quite clearly on the pointy side. The gloves were on view, of course, and he chewed on an unlit, well-worn and evil-looking pipe.
“Well, what do we know about them?” The third member of the group was shorter and much more powerfully built than his more gangly companion, with tattoos down both forearms and a skull and crossbones T-shirt. “One of them’s that bastard Llewellyn. Pity we couldn’t finish him off when we had the chance. What about this girl? She shouldn’t give us any problem.”
“Do not underestimate them, Peter. Gareth Llewellyn has become a lot more powerful since he became a full Custodian. As for the girl, we do not know a great deal about her, except that she is Elizabeth Feinstein’s great-niece. The fact that the succession has missed a generation will make her stronger. What worries me is that we do not know exactly where they are. There is no sign of their having left the house, yet the aura is very weak there. We must track them down and perhaps take pre-emptive action. One way or another, the challenge having been laid down, there will be a confrontation sooner or later.” Poivre replaced his pipe and resumed his stem-chewing.
“What’s the plan then, Pierre? Does this Theeth creature have any weaknesses that we know of?”
“The only one we are aware of is that he cannot abide the taste of alcohol. We do not think it is the effect of the alcohol itself, just the taste. If we were able to make him consume some, it would disorientate him completely.”
“Poor bastard, eh? Can’t have a drop of the bloody old grape, what? Damned miserable existence if you ask me.”
“I am aware of you fondness for Champagne, Oliver. I trust it will not cloud your judgement in any way.”
“No,no, of course not Pierre. A chap knows how to keep control, what? Can’t we shoot them or run them over or something? A damned sight easier, I’d say.”
“Yes, but too complicated. If the British police were to get involved, many awkward questions might be raised. We must find a way to outwit them and make it look like an accident.”
“Yeah, we don’t want the bloody fuzz poking their noses in,” growled Patterson. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to shove one or other of them out of a window. That would slow them down all right.”
“Yes, good thinking, Peter. Death by defenestration—what a splendid idea! Those are the sort of lines along which we must proceed. If only we knew where they were, we might be able to slow their progress down somewhat. Our spies are out and about. We must hope to hear something soon. Are you two ready to move immediately if required?”
“Certainly are. Got the old Bentley ready for action. Zoom off to Wales asap, what?”
“Good, good. Let us hope your driving skills will soon be put to the test, Oliver. I am confident we will have some action in the near future.”
Pierre Poivre watched as his fellow-conspirators sauntered jauntily out of the room. He started absent-mindedly filling his pipe and looked out of the window in worried concentration. Soon a foul-smelling fug filled the sparsely-furnished room, reflecting the state of its only occupant.
16
The dining-room was small and distinctly unprepossessing. Three plastic tables were surrounded by a motley assortment of elderly rickety chairs. Beth noted with some disquiet that the tablecloths were plastic too, and rather grubby in appearance. A few cheap prints adorned the walls, together with, yes, you’ve guessed it, a flight of three cheap china ducks a la Hilda Ogden. The young couple were invited to sit at the one table which already had an occupant: a tall thin man with receding, thinning hair brushed back and who sported a cheap threadbare suit and a gaudy tie, not to mention a rather pathetic attempt at a wispy moustache.
“Lamprey, Lewis Lamprey”, he introduced himself. “Of Leading Light Carpet Tiles, responsible for North Wales and the North-west, yarse.” On enquiry, he revealed that sales were not good at the moment, although he had concluded some business that very day, in Llandudno. He went on to mutter something about being able to buy Christmas presents for his kids now, and this remark in turn prompted the production from a battered wallet of a rather tatty photograph. This revealed a goofy buck-toothed boy with incipient acne and a younger girl with a bad squint and an atrocious pair of glasses. Between them stood a woman whose fading good looks were subsumed by an expression of complete exhaustion.
“Luke and Lucinda. Wife’s name is Elvira.” Further prompting revealed that they lived in Luton at 11, Landfill Lane. ‘Nuff said!
“A lot of “ell” in Paradise!” Gareth quipped brightly.
“Not quate sure what you mean,” came the reply, totally without irony. He then gave Beth a lecherous, almost lascivious look and muttered something about lovely ladies being in short supply in these parts. Beth reddened slightly and glared back without reply.
Actually, as already hinted at, the food was surprisingly good. A delicious thick vegetable soup was followed by tasty spaghetti Bolognese, with a special vegetable variety for Beth. The accoutrements used for the meal were not as alluring. Cheap cutlery with plastic handles served as eating implements and none-too-cold water was provided in ancient plastic beakers. Even water can taste unpleasant at times!
Gareth asked about the possibility of coca-cola or even fruit squash of some kind but a fiendish snarl from the lady of the house gave this request short shrift. The balance was restored when a splendid rhubarb crumble with custard appeared for dessert.
“’E used to be a chef in the Army, yarse,” Mr. Lamprey informed them. “Got invalided out when he did his back in, mmm.” The three of them scoffed the remainder when their hostess briefly left the room. The look on her face when she returned spoke volumes but Gareth quickly intervened.
“Thank you Mrs. Flounders, that was excellent. My compliments to the chef.” The accompanying smile disarmed the lady immediately and she disappeared back into the kitchen in a flustered flurry of confusion.
The meal was finished off with appallingly weak cups of tea, produced with a flourish by Mrs. Flounders.
“I don’t understand how the food can be so good and the rest so awful,
” Beth said. “This place could be really nice if she made a bit of an effort.”
“’E does the cookin’ and she does the rest,” the salesman explained. “Only reason I stays ’ere’s for the food—and it’s dirt cheap.”
They adjourned to the lounge and settled into shabby armchairs. “No Sky, I suppose,” Gareth grumbled and indeed there wasn’t, just an elderly television set with poor reception endeavouring to churn out Coronation Street. They made desultory conversation for a while, having decided not to risk the local hostelry in the inclement weather. At nine o’clock Lamprey looked up and said “Late night lock-up. Lord love you if you’re still out.” Sure enough, their landlady appeared with a large bunch of keys and proceeded with great fuss to lock the front door.
“Is that to stop them getting in or us getting out?” Gareth enquired in a whisper. “Can’t think they’d have any problem with burglars here!”
“Time now for the last libation,” Mr. Lamprey intoned as Mrs Flounders re-appeared, this time bearing a cheap tin tray upon which three gaudily-coloured chipped mugs sat unsteadily. Wisps of steam floated above them as they were passed round. Their contents, a muddy-coloured liquid, purported to be hot chocolate but that description was generous at the very least. They downed the brew with a minimum of enthusiasm, whereupon Leading Light Carpet Tiles’ leading light took his leave, saying something about having to work the next day even though it was Saturday.
Left alone, the young couple discussed the evening’s events, such as they were, but were no wiser as to why Theeth had wanted them to stay in such undistinguished surroundings. Further musings on the meaning of Seth’s scrap of paper failed to produce any significant developments. At about half past ten, Stan appeared. He had obviously had a pint or three and Beth couldn’t help wondering what his wife’s reaction would be when she saw him. He removed his raincoat and hat and hung them up in the hall to allow the melting snowflakes to drop off.
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