“Listen,” said Horn, “don’t you never ever mess up nuffing with the blokes up north. I’ve got enough pain in the ask-me-again without any bovver from you. Got it?” He glared at first one and then the other.
“Sure Boss.” “Yes Boss.”
Horn suddenly stopped dead. The other two stopped and swung round to look at him.
“’Ere. I got... She said I got...”
“Oo’s this, Boss? Who said?”
“The Beak. She – It wasn’t old Bloat. I got lumbered with this fancy old bird who read out all this new stuff like you wouldn’t believe! Little bird wi’ this tall feather stickin’ up on her head, like she’s royalty. Lah de dah stuff.
“And she says I got a...” he looked round, dropped his head, and the others moved in close to hear him, “a motivated circumspection.”
The other two rocked back in shock. Neither spoke. Very carefully, they looked him all over. Especially all over.
Blowback cleared his throat. “You sure, Boss? I can’t see – I mean there’s nothing to... How did she know?”
“That’s the thing!” Said Horn. “She asked me to... She wanted me to – I dunno! Give ’er a sample, I s’pose.”
“A sample, Boss?” Piped up Skinner, “What, like she wanted to give you a price on what you’d knocked off at the market?”
“No!” Roared Horn.
“So, what sample did you have, then? You done some other job?”
“Nooo,” he said in frustration. “She wanted me to pee.”
“What?” Blowback was incredulous. “In the Courtroom? You’d get a week in the clink for that wiv’ Bloat!”
“I know. But then she changed her mind like she knew the result.”
“How would she know that?” Blowback was horrified.
“Well, that’s the point. She had it written down. She was reading stuff all the time about me.”
“But how would they know things like that?” Blowback persisted.
“But how would they know things like that?” Asked Blowback.
“That’s the point, innit? Frightening what they know.” Said Horn.
“Listen. I could ask PC Mungle?” asked Skinner.
“Don’t you dare!” Shot back Horn. “That’s how they collect this stuff. Police Constables everywhere? That’s how they’re doing it. Got to be. Then they go back to Pong Street and compare notes. Can you imagine the information they’re collecting on ev’ryone? You can’t even break wind and they’ve got it on paper!” Horn was in quite a state.
“Boss?” said Blowback slowly, “How would they have found out, you know, that you’ve got a... you know, this marinated constipation?”
“Listen you fellas! I hear one word you’ve spread this around - Jus’ one word - an’ I’ll KILL YA!”
They were arriving at their usual “after incarceration” boozer, the Fig and Thistle. Or, as was variously known by its clientele, the Pig and Whistle, Lick and Tickle, Big and Little, Stick and Bristle, and many more much worse names, depending on the level of inebriation.
17 GOING NOWHERE FAST
Setting out from the north side of Diddling, Montague Stump had slowly travelled and explored all the way down to Neese on the coast. That covered a lot of territory. And ‘covering a lot of territory’ was a far more accurate term than ‘distance covered.’
For humans, distance was more often measured in terms of convenience rather than kilometres, miles, parsecs or whatever. Distance was simply reduced to the overall time it took to get from A to B. And time merely depended on speed. Speed most often depended on the choice of transport. Conversely, the mode of transport would depend on either time, or distance, or both. For them, “How far was it?” often meant the same thing as “How long would it take?”
For a fox the measurement of both time and distance was at once much more limited and at the same time, vague. Mode of transport was usually but not always a given for a start. Fox power certainly, but if there was a lift available, a fox was not averse to taking it if it served his purpose.
And foxes seldom if ever drew a straight line from A to B - unless of course, B was the next meal and was about to disappear.
Quite apart from such important moments of decision-making like impulse-chasing dinner, actual distance covered was always “off the charts” compared with anything like “as the crow flies”. Ground travel most often bore no relation whatever to the concept of a straight line between points. This could be for any number of reasons ranging from the advantages or disadvantages of terrain to the need to cover one’s tracks, from following someone else’s tracks or to avoid someone coming, from the smell of someone else - or their dinner - to seeing a beautiful view.
For the fox, the passage of time was best measured between chances of food or water-stops or similar events, any of which might or might not be fixed. Necessarily, time was as flexible as was the need for patience. And where food was concerned when living on the run, patience by definition had to be elastic.
While speed could well be taken as a constant – the foxtrot, naturally - distance travelled was clearly all over the shop, just as was any progress from point to point. Opportunity and terrain were everything to a fox, so how long a job would take was anybody’s guess.
Having said all that, in terms of countryside converted to something for human comprehension, the distance from Hernia, which is where he came from on the other side of Diddling in the north, all the way to Neese on the far south coast, was about 1,100 kilometres as a crow flies.
On his first full journey south all the way to the sea, Stump took a few days short of six months, and had covered at least twice that distance. Stump would have been the first to say he had no destination. To him the journey itself was everything. He was after all looking for himself.
18 PIG IN THE POKE
Horn habitually worked alone. That way he always felt able to pick out a market. He was certainly never averse to seeing what profit he could turn up without the aid of Blowback or Skinner. What with profit margins and expenses to think of, this habit stayed with him. One evening, he was scoping out a couple of shops off from a main road, that looked like they might have easy pickings, when he noticed a mongrel carrying a load of strange bags. The fellow himself had some sort of tattoo on his shoulder. Maybe OCD or something. He looked out of place, and the bags looked like nothing Horn had ever seen before. Curious, he followed.
The fellow probably had a bit of wolf in him, but the rest of him was just a mess. The bags he was lugging intrigued him. They were giving off a faint smell. Made of something like the skin or hide of an animal, he could deduce that much, but the contents took a while longer. He finally guessed it had to be wine. This was new to him. He’d never had it or even seen it. His knowledge of wine was zero, but if the fellow was carrying it about like that, then it had to be worth something. He had no idea. Maybe it was worth a lot. He kept following. Soon enough, Mongrel disappeared into a big shed among other sheds. Horn found a nice spot in someone’s garden where he could hide and watch.
Twenty-four hours later, he had seen what he thought might be Mongrel’s work cycle. Mongrel left in the morning empty, came back really loaded, did it again in the afternoon before finishing for the day.
Second day, as soon as Mongrel was gone, Horn was all around the shed. Eventually, he decided the only way in would be to pull a couple of planks off at the side. One came off leaving the nails behind, the other came with its nails. Before he went in, he played with the planks to work out how to put them back. Once he had a reusable entry, he was in.
The smell of wine was very strong. There were lots of these wine bags. Lots. Too many and too much in confused mounds to count. Fantastic. He could take off with heaps and nobody would know. Each had a loop of cord attached to it. Very easy for carrying more than one, just as Mongrel had done.
Within minutes of getting in, he was out again, planks back in place, and he was gone in the opposite direction to Mongrel. He was carrying at
least as many as Mongrel had done.
Nearing his place, he saw Half-moustache coming out of the front of his building and head towards him. Not wanting to be seen with his cargo about him, Horn smartly turned into a tiny garden and stood at the front door of the house as if waiting for it to open. When he was certain Half-moustache was well and truly gone, Horn carried on home.
At this point, things went seriously wrong for Horn. The door he had pretended to be waiting at was to a tiny bed-sit also owned by Half-moustache, rented to two water rats, both of them confirmed alcoholics, and both of whom as it happened had previously rented the room now occupied by Horn.
They had come up from the river to get jobs in the sewers. The pay was better in the city, work was plentiful, and they were able to contact any number of like-minded drinkers and thinkers through their union.
There had been one thing lacking for them in the place where Horn was. Considered a highly prized necessity by water rats living away from the river, every river rat worth his or her salt had one for city living. A bath. They had been waiting months for somewhere with one to come available. Horn had literally moved in the very day after the two rats, Rusty and Musty Fert, had moved out. Now happily downsizing for a cheaper rent - their room was tiny by comparison but had a bath – and they still had possession of a key to their old room Horn was getting
What’s more, they could see part of their old place from the new. Being inquisitive, if not actually acquisitive creatures, they had taken a keen interest in who might follow them into their previous abode.
They already knew something of Horn’s movements, but had been unimpressed so far by his surreptitious trafficking what could only be stolen goods. But instantly alerted by the smell wafting under their door, they couldn’t believe their luck as they watched Horn carry home his latest haul.
It wasn’t long before they had Horn’s new pattern of behaviour down pat vis-à-vis his movement of wine bags. They wouldn’t know exactly how many he had until they got into his place, but that wasn’t the point. They could manage to take one bag each. So the plan was, back at their place, they’d simply get smashed. As soon as they were sober enough they’d go for more, and so on. But then they had a brilliant new thought.
First up, if, whatever stock the wolf-fellow had, was all gone when they went back for more, they would miss out. So why not stockpile as much as they could while they could! How to do that was easy, since one of them was now sleeping in the bath and the other in a coal scuttle. It simply meant one of them would have to rough it, or they could take turns in the scuttle. No problem. All it would take would be a bit of discipline to get a decent stock in before they could let themselves get smashed.
Pulling the plug from the bath they drained the rather fetid water. Where that went to didn’t matter. Plug back in, they just emptied both bags into the bath and went off for refills.
Halfway there, they stopped. Refills were not the way to go. Leaving empties there was a dead give-away. Running back home, they refilled the bags with water. Once in Horn’s place, they buried the waterbags at the back of the heap Horn was creating, and dragged home two fresh wine-bags.
They could do at least two runs like that to Horn’s one, though he was more efficient per trip than them. On the other hand, he wasn’t too keen to overdo his luck. Anyway, over the coming days the bath steadily filled. With commendable sobriety the two water rats managed the whole operation without getting wasted. Not often, anyway.
There came a time when Horn reckoned he had enough. Stopping the incoming supply, he turned his talent toward selling the stuff. The rats on the other hand just kept moving wine out and putting back water. Being almost as efficient in the drinking department as the carrying department - consuming if not a bag each per twenty-four hours then at least one between them - stock replenishment in the bath kept their wine nice and fresh. All of which meant the wine stock in Horn’s hideaway was becoming more and more diluted.
19 ON A ROLL
Horn spent a number of days wandering about malls and markets with two bags of wine before he managed a sale. After cornering a posh Great Dane dude in a hat who was coming rather self-consciously out of a very dingy back alley, Horn had kept at him until the fellow bought one just to get away.
Even to Horn, this was hardly a success. His instincts had been to avoid trying to sell the wine into shops. He was too used to nicking stuff out of shops. But at the rate he was going, he saw no other option. It occurred to him that the way to go about it would be to pose as some sort of supplier. Ready or not, this would be a learning curve for him. Armed with no knowledge of how suppliers actually operate, he decided he would just look as if he had been a sales rep for so long that he was completely bored about the whole thing and hope he could wing it.
Instead of going back for more bags, he took the one he had and headed for the first bottle shop name he could think of. The nearest at that moment was the very trendy Bubble & Mush in the upmarket suburb of Clopsick. Rather than slow down and get nervous about it, he just bowled in. The place was stacked with a maze of different beverages. Beers and booze of every description, all of which was quite beyond Horn’s experience.
Out from behind the counter came a very petite and perfect Pomeranian. Sitting jauntily on her head was a cap with the word ‘Gladys’. “How can I help you?” She oozed, “What would be your fancy today then? Are we thinking beer, perhaps? Or would Sir be drawn to the quaffing of something perhaps a little more re-sher-she? Mmm?”
“Ah. Oo. Er. No fanks. Er, like, akshually, the other foot, you know. I’m selling this... like. This line.” Horn shoved the wine bag at her.
“Oh, right,” said Gladys, dropping the sales pose but not taking the proffered bag,. “I’ll get the Boss.” Off she minced and disappeared somewhere at the back of the shop. A few minutes later she waltzed back.
“Park it. ’E’s tappin’ a butt. May be a while,” she instructed and went back behind the counter, up onto a stool and commenced biting a nail, but keeping a rather steady eye on Horn.
The manager turned out to be a grossly overweight bulldog who’s left eye had obviously seen better days. He was wearing a leather apron that reeked of all sorts of things. He had a wooden barrel spigot in one hand and a rather large mallet in the other.
“Yes?” He asked.
“Um.” Fascinated by the left eye, Horn offered the bag. “Oh, Selling these.”
The manager put his tools on the counter, slowly smoothed down his apron and took the proffered bag. He examined one side, then the other. Then did it again, slower. He opened it, sniffed it carefully, thought about it, then he took it to the front door and repeated the whole exercise in the better light. Finally he came back and examined Horn very carefully as if looking for something before fixing Horn eye to eye. “OK, how much?”
Horn hadn’t thought enough about that. Not for a shop. His M.O. was to fleece a shop without permission, not do deals with the owner.
“Depends,” he said, adopting what he thought might be a suitable negotiating pose but looking more as if he expected a thump.
“Yes. Quite right,” said the manager. “The question of quantity.” He gave the bag yet another examination. No sniffing this time. “OK,” he said, sizing up Horn, “Twenty-five?” He asked.
Horn thought, Twenty-five what? Twenty-five punts each? That’s not much. Or he wants twenty-five bags?” His blank expression meant he had no idea.
The manager didn’t seem to notice. Either that, or he took it Horn accepted. “First up,” he began, “You got twenty-five?”
Horn’s face lit up.
“Right. For starters,” continued the manager, “minimum twenty-five, maximum a hundred. I’ll go a knocker each.”
Horn was stunned. For a first shot, he was looking at a little fortune compared with his usual scrapings. He’d never done a deal of such magnitude. He couldn’t believe his luck. And there might be more? This is the Big Time. Rent for years maybe. Struggling t
o appear nonchalant, he managed only to blink and realised his jaw had dropped. Luckily, he still had his fighting pose otherwise he would have staggered.
The manager swept his tools from the counter and walked off, taking the sample bag with him, saying as he went, “On consignment.”
“Of course,” said Horn confidently, as if expecting no less, but having no idea what it meant. Does it matter what that means? I’m in the money! Bulldogs gone to get it right now! What should I go for? Fifty or a hundred? There must be thousands I could get from that warehouse. I’ll have to get the boys in on this straight away. I have no idea how many I’ve got at my place, but we need a lot more now, and that’s for sure! Oh, Boy! Big Times, here we come!
Another thought came to him. I might seriously not be able to keep up with demand at this rate.
He came out of his reverie to find Gladys standing in front of him. “Listen,” she hissed, “where did you get that stuff?” She kept glancing at the back of the shop as if watching for the manager.
“What?” he asked, also looking for the manager’s return.
“Where did you get the bag?” She repeated in a whisper and began pulling him towards the door. Horn wasn’t going anywhere without his money and resisted her tugging. “Trade secret,” he said, beginning to get just a little bit confused. “Listen, ‘on confinement’. What’s that then?”
20 THE LEARNING CURVE
When Stump had set out from High Aytus, his ancestral home near a village called Hernia, north of Diddling, he had a hangover, a full wallet, no possessions to speak of, and a clear conscience. He hadn’t actually said good-bye to anyone, but what he had said was clear enough. At least, if it was clear to him, surely it was to everyone else. In his own mind he was doing the right thing, so that settled the matter.
A Tour de Fate Page 5