Whether deliberate or not, the excess of enjoyable refreshments and takeaways worked a treat. Word spread like a grass fire among the young layabouts as Fullon set an irregular habit of splashing out, and often providing even more irregular items on the menu. Who cared whether he did it for other age groups or business interests, or what he got up to - although talk of a more serious note did arise among other circles.
For instance, as word spread of Fullon’s presence, Monty found his parents bringing up questions about Fullon once or twice at mealtime. Apparently suspicion was circulating as to where he had come from, how he came by his wealth and his apparent attraction to those not in serious employment. Nobody seemed to know.
Monty said nothing and gave the impression that he knew nothing. Since they obviously disapproved of Fullon, Monty was not going to let on that he even knew of the fellow, let alone that he and his mates were spending time with him, carousing, drinking, yahooing and generally doing the opposite of what his parents thought of as the proper way to behave.
Monty had also heard the term ‘new money’ for the first time. He worked out that if Fairly Fullon represented ‘new money’, then his father, Alfred Stump must have the ‘old money’. This fitted to the fact that his father was extremely wealthy, had apparently inherited most if not all of whatever it was - all of which Monty had simply taken for granted. His father was so reserved and stodgy about everything, so expecting Monty to ‘do the right thing’ that Monty had never dared question anything.
Fullon, on the other hand was a flashy show-off, careless with his wealth, swaggering and flaunting about in it. And as far as Monty could see, he encouraged everyone to his raves to do whatever they wanted.
8 PLAYING FOR HEAPS
Horn ended up finding lodgings in Snarly, a one-bedder that had the advantage of its own entrance and a ‘secret’ poke-hole at the back of the room almost as big as the room itself - if you kept your head down and weren’t claustrophobic. The proprietor pretended not to know of the extra facility, but the rent he demanded meant he had to be lying.
The landlord was a greasy looking rat with half his moustache missing, of indeterminate age who seemed to own a whole string of properties. The fellow had waited while Horn sussed out the place. Horn had been instantly drawn to the grooving in the floor caused by frequent moving of an old chest of drawers.
Computing that he was getting more than just a room with a chest of drawers - and something in the corner that was supposed to represent a mattress - Horn took a gamble on the size of the rent. To satisfy his curiosity about the grooves in the floor he said he would take the room, reckoning he could do a moonlight flit if he changed his mind.
The moonlight flit had to be delayed when Half-moustache demanded rent in advance. Horn said he’d be right back.
To someone with no wherewithal to his name, rent in advance should have been a major blow. To Horn, this merely meant deflecting the blow to someone else. He went straight back to the foster home and baled up Mrs Poadges. About to touch her for a loan, he had a better idea. He simply asked if he could stay one more night. Naturally, being the kind-hearted soul that she was, she said yes. Off he went upstairs to his old dorm.
Mrs Poages’ routine never varied. She only went upstairs at mid-day to clean it. Nobody signed in or out or had to attend the meal she served, so once he was in, she wouldn’t know if he was in, out or where he was. As soon as she left her kitchen, he was down again. Pulling her purse from where he knew she kept it in the sack of potatoes, he removed enough for two weeks’ rent and was off at a gallop.
He had enough nous to give only one week’s rent to Half-moustache. Taking possession, he checked out the hidey-hole. Delighted with his find, he was off to the wealthier neighbourhoods around Snarly to make an honest go of making a profit by any dodgy means possible.
With his own key to his own front door, he could come and go undetected. More than that, he reckoned he could move stuff in and out without being seen by nosey neighbours. He really couldn’t believe his luck. At the rate he was going, he was on the road to success and riches. Imagine buying out Half-moustache! Yeah, better still, I could offer ’im a job!
Up to a point, Horn’s business efforts did pay off, but he never quite seemed to get to the next step up. And, of course, he never quite lost touch with the good Magistrate, Mr Henry Bloat. Or rather, Old Bloat had more or less regular opportunities to review Horn’s education. In his case, this meant progress through the great book of Summary Offences.
It wasn’t long before Bloat had reason to move Horn to the next in the legal good reads and introduce him to the mysteries set out in the book of Misdemeanours. Naturally, having to reach for this book usually meant introducing his customers to a stretch in big school, namely, The Pound at the back of Snarly police station.
At first, Horn found times in The Pound highly educational. He learnt lots of tricks and tips from those serving time there. But when he got down to basics, Horn wasn’t interested in gaining an encyclopaedic knowledge of abstruse or sophisticated ways to make a dishonest living. Just the easiest way to make a fortune would do fine. And to him, the easiest way was the best, i.e., whatever he could work out for himself.
He decided his goal in life was to make a packet, a big enough packet, so that he could either retire, or maybe get someone like Half-moustache to run his business for him. But while he liked to imagine he was climbing up the inventive ladder of bent and crooked ways to make a profit, somehow, he seemed to do little more than make ends meet.
He did however form a sort of alliance with two mutts who had more or less the same interest in doing as little as possible at the expense of anyone foolish enough to hire them. Both were dogs. One was a somewhat punch-drunk and now aged boxer called Burt Blowback, and the other was called Hardly Skinner. Skinner was a cross-eyed bull terrier who described himself as a retired stand-over artist.
Horn first met these two characters in the Pound. He hadn’t thought much of them at the time, but running into them later, they ended up doing a bit of shoplifting together. They seemed to have the makings of a team. Splitting the proceeds, they agreed to do it again some time, which they did.
After job two or three, it was obvious to Blowback and Skinner that Horn was better at organising such stunts than they were. Since the two of them were a bit long in the tooth, this was the sort of arrangement they both appreciated. Horn hadn’t seemed to cotton on to what was happening. To them, it quite brightened their day but they both said nothing. They didn’t want to jinx it.
And so a sort of relationship began. Whenever the three got together to do an occasional job - usually it would be Horn looking for them because he had something lined up - they would simply let him run the show. To their way of thinking, the longer he offered just casual work, the longer they could perhaps look on it as regular employment.
9 PLAYING FOR KEEPS
One night at Bortontick, everyone was gathered around Fairly Fullon as usual. Everyone more or less knew the order of business by then. Lots of worshipping his magnanimity, hopefully doing which would pay for soaking up the free drinks and other tempting goodies in circulation, legal or otherwise.
All this would continue until Fullon steered the conversation around to some sort of risky venture or other. Occasionally something he came up with would seem to be a complete fizzler, but whatever it was, it was always taken to be the main attraction of the night. Often, the subject would be embarrassing for those who didn’t have the wherewithal.
This time, Fullon brought the conversation round to how much everyone was prepared to place wagers. Elimination rounds reduced the contestants in no time. The usual majority present was simply there for the freebies or just plain hanging out and would have little at the best of times. Dares for them were limited to doing just crazy stupid thing without cost.
It wasn’t long before Fullon steered matters into a more lucrative discussion. Inevitably, everyone was finally disqualified until it wa
s a duel between the host and Monty. On this occasion the host made a grand gesture that he would cover everybody’s losses up to that moment. Everyone assumed he would do the same if Monty lost, which would have been a great ending. But it became increasingly obvious that Fullon was pursuing Monty with much more than good-natured party banter. This mood swing created an uncertainty that excited the crowd even more.
Plying the boy with more and more drink, he had drawn the lad into ever increasing sizes of dares. The crowd had loved it. It was a different night from the usual crashing and smashing. All apparently just a game. All good-natured. But the crowd began to smell blood, sensing a kill was in the air. Soon enough, Fullon was closing in, circling the boy – the crowd held its breath waiting for Fullon to pounce.
Montague had been lapping up the drink and the attention and was by now obviously struggling to keep any sort of clear head. He had just said he was willing to risk his whole inheritance on one game of chance.
“On one game of chance?” Fullon quizzed him.
“Yes.”
“Your whole inheritance?”
“Yes. The lot.”
“Any game?”
“Whatever you like.”
“All you’ve got?”
“Everything I’ve got.”
“Your word?”
“My word.”
“OK!...” For a long moment, Fullon weighed up the situation hungrily. Then he stood up, turned, and barked, “My game! Bring it out!” He shouted. “I love this game. My favourite!” He oozed anticipation.
As if on cue, as if they had been ready and waiting, out came two elderly poodles carrying a pinball machine on a stand. They put it down, busily but slowly fussed about it and then retired.
Fullon was pacing up and down. As soon as the servants were gone, he stopped and aimed his stare at Monty.
“Come, lad. Fire first. Give it your best shot. One shot each.”
Again, he was pacing, shouting to the crowd,
“Ladies and gentlemen, winner takes all!”
Roars and catcalls from everyone.
Monty stood up. “What do I get if I win? What’s your word, then Mr Fullon?” He felt proud to stand toe to toe competing with the tycoon.
“Anything you like, lad. Shoot. Don’t waste time!” Fullon was openly hustling. He went to his seat, turned and looked at Monty expectantly. Impatiently he shouted at him, “Come, come! Do it!”
So the boy simply took his shot. The ball rattled around, dinging furiously a few times, rattled some more, more dinging, then slow rattling until all was quiet. On the board it read 19,994.
A long silence. Montague moved away and sat.
Fullon got up, went forward, eyeing everyone intently. He gave a quick check over his shoulder at the board before declaring to the crowd,
“The lad has played. Fair and square. Everything above board. I have to beat...” He checked the board again. “19,994.” He said the numbers slowly.
“If I do, he gives me everything. Right?”
“Right!” They all responded. Unanimous.
Fullon said to the crowd, “My turn!”
He turned, took one step towards the machine and stopped dramatically, as if something had occurred to him.
“Check the board!” He cried.
The two flunkies trotted out again. They made a fuss all over the machine. He turned to his audience again.
“We don’t want to fall for something our young friend might have done, eh? No tricks, thank you, we want everything above board, yeah?”
“Yeah!” They cried. The two servants stood waiting. Fullon looked to them and one of them gave a little nod. He turned back to the audience as the two scurried away again.
“Are we ready?”
“Ready!” Everyone cried. He went to the machine, flexed his muscles, moved his head around, adjusted his stance, paused. When everyone was quite quiet, only then did he shoot.
The ball whizzed, ding-danged, rattled around, more dings and dangs, more rattles, got caught in more ding-dangs, then furiously ding-dinged for several seconds. It rattled on again, gave a series of solitary dings, and one very weak dang. Then the ball finally rattled into the stops. Silence prevailed. While all that was going on, Fullon had returned to his seat. He was preening himself.
In the ensuing silence, Fullon didn’t even look at the board, just turned to the girl next to him and said, “Read it to me. Tell me the worst.”
She was timid and whispered. He turned to his audience and shouted, “I didn’t hear. What did I get?”
Everyone yelled at once, but it ended together as a chant. “One hundred and ten thousand eight hundred and eighty-two!”
Fullon moved his head about, as if asking, what does that mean?
“You win.” A ragged start, but it was swiftly repeated into a steady beat. You win. You win.” Fullon turned to claim his prize, however that might be done, but Montague was gone.
Stopping only to throw up in the gardens, he had made his way home as best he could. At home, stuffing things into a satchel, he left his room, found his parents in the dining room having a quiet drink. Bursting in, he declared to them he’d lost everything – no he was not going to sit down and explain – No, he meant everything, didn’t they understand? To Fairly Fullon, who else! Yes, he’d been seeing him. Yes, he knew they disapproved. No, they didn’t have to worry, the fellow would be around to tell them soon enough – no he was not sitting down – he was telling them – no he was not repeating it – they heard – no time – got to go – appointment – goodbye.
And right or wrong, Montague Stump fled. At least, he left rather hurriedly - slamming the door on his parents, and his childhood.
10 HAVING AN INSIDE TRACK
Meanwhile, on the same day though not at the same time, and unlike Montague Stump who was seeking freedom from his restrictions, another character not so far away was about to receive restrictions on his freedom.
Hans Horn, half wolf half fox, was up for sentencing. By now he was also known as “Hammerhead”, and of uncertain age if only due to his lifestyle, but in fact he was only two weeks older than Montague Stump. He did now have a permanent address, but never gave out that information. He usually had too much “goods in transit” to risk that. On the rare occasion it was demanded, he would give his address as Care of Mrs Poadges at the foster home.
“Hans Horn, please stand. Raise your right – NO! Not your back –Never mind! Just listen to The Honourable Mrs. Peregrine Pertwee.” Said the Clerk of the Diddling Central Court.
“Mr. Horn,” said the temporary presiding Magistrate, a lapwing. Adjusting her crest, she walked all over a very large piece of paper on the bench. She read, “you have been found guilty of misappropriating property pertaining to plenty of plaintiffs plying proper practices in the middle of Margaret Muddle’s May Madness...” She stopped and looked for the Clerk.
“Excuse me. Clerk. What is that word? No, it should be a-l-e, not a-i-l.... Example, Sale, as in a pale of water. Not sail as in you look pail today. Well? Correct it! No, I haven’t got a pen. You get a pen. Right. Now... There. a-l-e Sale. Thank you. You really must learn to dot your eyes, as I’m sure you recited in school, ‘Dot your eyes and cross your ears, keeps the flies from -’ Really!” She stopped, her attention caught by the fellow in the dock.
“Mr Horn, she cried, “Are you paying attention? If you had a behoof, you’d be behoven to use it. At my behest, I can assure you. How do you plead?”
Horn understood nothing about hooves and misheard ‘plead’ for a similar word. He was confused. For a start, this was not the usual ‘Beak’.
Why couldn’t I have my regular bloke? He thought. All that reading she’d done? That wasn’t natural for a start! Old Mr Henry Bloat was a Gent. You knew where you were with ’im. Straight up ’e is. But this lady? Hoppin’ about with ’er shrieky voice?
He thought carefully. How do I pee? Why would she want to know how I do a pee? Must be some new medical thi
ng, I s’pose. So he said, as if explaining to a child,
“Well your Honour, when I pee, usually I just raise my back leg and, you know, and then it just... I can show you, your honorific, if -”
The Clerk, a retired Police beagle and two serving officers all leaped forward to prevent an untoward moment.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr Horn,” shrieked the Magistrate, “we’ll take that as a red. Please be seated. You have been found guilty as I say. However, in your case, I hazard to say there are mitigating circumstances.”
Horn leaped to his feet. “I swear you Honour! I haven’t done nothing to get that sort of thing! I don’t associate with any of them, you know, them sorts of – Oi! Don’t you – Orright, I’ll siddown.”
The beagles were at him. They shoved him down and then stood either side of him. They stood very close. Nobody mucked up in this Court.
“What happened to Bloat, then?” He asked a beagle. “Why can’t I have Bloaty. You know where you are with old Bloat.”
“Contempt of Court!” Shrieked the lapwing. “I heard that. Four weeks for the offences as charged plus one week for contempt. I’ll have you know I am not an old goat!”
Horn‘s mouth opened – but out of sight from the bench, the screw beside him stuck out a leg and kicked at Horn who then thought better than trying to sort the new problem.
Hans “Hammerhead” Horn was shortly led away to serve five weeks hard labour in the Pound at the rear of the Police Headquarters on Upp Close, in Snarly, an inner suburb of Diddling.
“What happened to Bloaty, then?” He asked as he left the Court.
“They say he’s got croup.” Said the one beagle assigned as escort.
A Tour de Fate Page 3