He had passed through Diddling, then Sale, where lay the wretched reason for his sudden new life, Fairly Fullon’s place, Bortontick. But OK, Fairly had won, so that was the end of it. He kept going. He was young, but felt quite old enough thank you, and could do as he pleased. He was going to see what the world had to offer, and that excited him. That’s how he had started, heading south simply because he couldn’t remember anything ever happening to the north.
First his hangover had gone, then his confidence. With their passing had come clarity, a heap of emotions, recriminations, all sorts of self-doubts and insecurities. He felt totally alone and exposed. This made him homesick and then sorry for himself. His thoughts and emotions went every which way, almost pulling him home, but he’d keep going somehow.
The distance from home grew. Uncertainty kept returning. There were times when his desperation drove him into his familiar stubbornness, this time in the form of insolence towards everyone and everything.
He had started off not caring what happened or where he slept –until he realised that things were not going his way. Life was not as easy as he thought. Then gradually his times of uncertainty turned into occasional moody periods of introspection. These in turn migrated towards more practical assessments of his needs of the moment.
He found he couldn’t just take or use what he wanted, or even go where he liked. Locals were suspicious, easily roused and very possessive. Hanging about was interpreted as loitering with intent. And to be honest, it usually was. Protocol or at least its pretence seemed essential.
Gradually, he learnt the rules of the game. Necessity turned his expectations of the bounty of nature towards a reliance on his own wits. Success depended on efficiency and cleverness. He found it was possible to pass by without being noticed. Then, the trick was to get what he wanted while just passing by.
He also learnt that a good hidey-hole provided better sleep and could sometimes offer the most amazing observation of life around him. He learnt never to leave a hide in a hurry. It could be at just the wrong moment. And if a place was that good, he might well want to return.
Finally, he realised he could survive. More than that, he liked the challenge, not in just doing it but by doing it well – even if ‘well’ was sometimes a bit ‘iffy’.
21 GETTING ROLLED
Horn noticed that Gladys was nowhere near as young as he first thought. She stared at him, clearly realising that he was even newer at the game than she first thought.
“It means,” she said, “you get nuffink’ till Mr Gordon sells your stuff. Then ’e might get round to it. Know what I mean?”
“Oh,” said Horn, reflectively. Having reflected on it, he added, “Ah.” He was realising the Good Times were being delayed a bit.
She debated whether he knew what he was getting into or not. It really depends on how ‘e got that wine bag. She thought. But if ‘e’s got an open-ended supply of bags they must be letting him do it. That’s got to be it. Otherwise... Otherwise, fer crickey! If he’s knocking them off, ‘e’s goin’ to be dead meat. That lot don’t muck about!
“OK, where do I, um, where do I put it - them?” Horn asked.
She didn’t like to see this fox type putting his head into such deep trouble. But what else can I say if he’s not goin’ to ’elp hi’self. Then a new thought struck her. Maybe they might be breaking in some new tosser. “Round the back. Up the side there. Take a look. You’ll see it.”
Horn went round to a lane beside the shop and came back shortly. “Ta,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“You know he does all the advertising for you?” She offered.
“Ah. Oo. That’s good.”
“You wanna see it? Here,” she said and went back in the shop.
Following her in, he immediately saw she was standing next to a wall of shelves packed with wine bags. He saw the price. Two and a half knockers each. Cor, Mate! He thought, I’ll drop off the first twenty-five at his price, then for the next fifty I’ll tell ’im the price ’as gone up. I’ll beat ’im at ’is own game.
Seeing him gawp at the display, she knew she had him figured. And thought, This tadpole is definitely in the wrong puddle.
“Nice,” he said, grinning. “Good one!” He said nodding at the price on the ticket. “Won’t be long.”
“They play rough you know,” she nodded at the name on the ticket.
He wasted no time and delivered the first twenty-five, then he paid a few visits to the storage shed and increased his own stock. He had no idea how much he had stockpiled, but was very sure he had delivered exactly twenty-five bags to the shop. What Horn had not noticed was that the smell of all the wine behind the chest of drawers had at some stage peaked and was definitely on the wane. Removing twenty-five bags from his heap only increased the percentage of water bags left by the sewer rats. The new stock from the wholesale shed helped bring the wine content up, but again that was immediately tackled by the hardworking comings and goings and drinkings of the sewer rats. They themselves had advertised on the sewer gripe-vine that anyone with a bath and spare pocket money might like to join their wine club. Permanently sozzled, they now employed someone else to fetch and carry the stuff for them.
As the water content of his stock began to accelerate the wine vapours almost disappeared. Horn simply thought the lack of smell was because he had become used to it. But he did have a worry nagging him. It was something about the shop. Every time he thought of Gladys he was reminded but couldn’t remember what it was. She had shown him the price. What had she said when I left? Be careful, or something? ‘They’ something. ‘They’. Who are ‘they’?
A day or so later in Snarly High Street he thought he’d check out the local opposition. Except it wasn’t the opposition. For the first time he realised that every suburb had a Bubble & Mush. Inside, he gravitated to where Gladys would have taken him. Sure enough, there were the same wine bags. Identical in every respect. Even the price was - no it wasn’t. It was cheaper. A lot cheaper. But he was sure the name was the same. The Blaghe D’och.
The days went by. First thing, every day, Horn woke up with an urge to go and check with Gladys if, how many, any, had been sold. Each day he steeled himself not to go. Give it time, give it time...
Rent day came round again. Half-moustache turned up, punctual as ever. Horn parted with the usual amount, and then blurted, “Um, can I ask you?”
“Call me Nigel,” said his landlord, becoming more expansive, at ease and closer, as if trying to inspire the transfer of intimate confidences. Or maybe to learn something salacious.
“Your one of my better tenants. Now. I think. So far. What’s yer problem?” He leaned even closer.
“Um, you know, like, This Blaghe D’och. What d’you, um, fink?”
That’s what it is. Thought Nigel. Knew I could smell something. ’E like a drop. “Nice drop I s’pose,” he said, “Why? You offerin'?”
“Oo, crickey no!” Blustered Horn, “I mean, you know, who are they? I mean, have you heard? Like, you know anything about them? I jus’ need...” He let it hang.
Nigel closed up like a hardcover book, all of a sudden the landlord again.
“What are you getting’ into? I don’t want no trouble, now? What’s your caper then? That sort of thing can affect your lease, you know. I gotta think o’ my reputation. You tenants gotta - you know - So you watch it, ’cos I’ll be watching you! Anything like you bringing down the tenor of the neighbourhood, you’ll be out quicker than a fly from a cow’s tail! What you up to, then?”
“I, Oh! Well, nothing, you know, like...Just asking. I mean, you know me, I wouldn’t... I mean, what are they like? Do they, you know..?” Horn floundered about, wondering what it was about his fantastic perfectly straightforward dodgy deal that seemed to be turning funny at the edges. Then in an unusual moment of clarity, he tried a different angle of attack. “I’m just curious, like asking for your advice... Nigel?”
“Ah, ho. Yes, Right. Well,” huffed Nigel,
trying to adjust to some change that had just happened. “They’re big. You know, into everything. OCD. Heard o’ them?”
“Um, Oh, yeah,” Horn hadn’t heard of them. Have I heard of them? “I forget. What are they again?”
“Occasional Customer Deliveries.”
“Ah, yes,” said Horn, still none the wiser.
“Otherwise known as Organised Criminal Despatchers.”
“Do what?” asked Horn.
“Well, that’s what us normal folk call ’em. Word is they’re as bent as a snake in the grass. They’re into everything. Take it from me. Firsthand experience, I’ll tell you. When I started out, I wanted a shop. Got one. Worked hard. My dream? Lots of shops. ‘N. SNOOD’ everywhere. But then...” Half-moustache fidgeted uncomfortably, took a deep breath and let it go before saying, “they marked my card and that was the end of it.”
Recovering his composure, he said briskly, “Got into property instead. Safer. Keep out of retail, sonny, that’s my advice. There are a few independents, probably. But those guys? Ruthless, they are. They’ll eat anybody who crosses them. Their own shops, and the distribution, see? Owning OCD, that’s the whole of Diddling sewn up. And they own The Blaghe D’och, Hucks, Bubble & Mush, and Wishy Washing and -”
Horn had no idea what N. Snood said after that. His world had stopped at the mention of Bubble & Mush.
22 HORN’S DILEMMA
What Horn did have was the clearest realisation that he was in dire trouble. Feverishly, he thought back over every detail leading him to deposit twenty-five bags of wine at Bubbles & Mush in Clopsick. Desperately he tried to build an idea that the shed he had been raiding might belong to someone other than OCD.
But that hope fell through when he remembered the mangey mongrel. Whatever letters-thing had been on the mongrel’s shoulder, even though he hadn’t seen it properly, it could only have been OCD.
I’ve just sold a heap of stuff back to the people I stole it from. Now I reckon that’s brilliant. Brilliant! That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever done! Except they’re crooks. Big Time Crooks. People like that get Upset. And people like that take it out on people like me. And that is not fair! After all that work!
What can I do? What can I do what can I do what can I do...
Then he had a new thought. They haven’t cottoned on to me yet, have they? And they don’t know how much I’ve got. Maybe I’ve got time to off-load it to someone!
But the more he thought about that, the more it didn’t help anyway. Who can I sell it to without giving my own game away?
He had a ton of the stuff in his storeroom. With that in the way, he couldn’t even run his normal business. He had to get rid of the wine somehow first. In fact, if he didn’t move it somewhere, fast, he wouldn’t be alive to have any business...
What about I flog it to their other shops before word gets around? Clever! But most of ’em shops are way off. I need something closer. I gotta dump the stuff. Gotta lose it before they tie it to me. How? Where?
He came round to a rather neat idea. If he simply put the stuff back. It would mean no profit at all. But it would solve all sorts of other problems. It removed the huge burden of getting caught by the crooks with so much of their stuff. His risk would be reduced to the twenty-five in the shop, but best of all, he could get back to more familiar ways of making money.
The next question was, how fast could he move the mass of bags out of his place. I’ll get Blowback and Skinner on it. Between us, that would be...
But that brought up a different problem. He hadn’t told those two about the wine. If he’d brought them in, they’d need a cut. The whole object had been to avoid that. This one was to be just for him. If I bring ‘em in now I have to pay them. Wiv’ these losses already? No way! That’d be going down just one plughole too many, that would!
Without further ado, he took the biggest load he could carry and made his way back to the shed. Luck was with him all the way. The streets were particularly deserted.
As soon as he got there, he shucked off his load, pulled the planks off, adopted a good stance, measured his aim ready to fling in the load he had brought, picked up the first bag and -
A face appeared. It looked like the mongrel dog, the one with the tattoo.
“Oo,” Monty said, and just froze.
Mongrel dog came through the hole - followed by another. To Horn, they looked identical.
“I’m an Inny,” said the first. “He’s an Outy. Who are you?”
Confused, Horn looked from one to the other, wondering what was going to happen next.
23 GETTING TO THE POINT
“You’re saving our lives, you are,” said the Inny, “You’ve come in the nick of time. We’ve been counting for days. Where’s the rest?”
“Yeah Matey, more, more. Need ’m all, quick.” Said the Outy.
“What?” Horn asked, apparently missing something. He’d been rumbled, caught, guilty as charged, and yet?
Yeah. Good thinking, Outy,” said Inny, fixing eyes on Horn. “Leave the stuff here, Matey. Where’s the rest? If we’re quick, we can do it. Get it before they come and we’re sweet. Drop it, Chum. Move! Help us. Where’ve you got ’em?” Salvation? Instinct took over. Horn bolted. Inny and Outy shot off with him. The three of them raced back to Snarly and his one-bedder. Yanking the chest of drawers aside, they went for the wine bags.
Loading themselves with far more bags than seemed possible, they lurched out looking like three armadillos as they staggered back to the shed. On the way, Horn heard that Inny took new full bags of wine to the shed, Outy delivered them from the shed to shops. He learnt more.
“Big mugging going on,” reported Outy.
“Merger, Matey,” corrected Inny.
Translated, it had meant that all outgoing deliveries had been stopped. Hence the build-up in the shed.
“Gotta stop taking,” according to Outy.
“Stock taking,” corrected Inny, “we been counting for days.”
“We got shot of ’undreds,” declared Outy proudly.”
“Short, Matey, short of ’undreds,” corrected Inny, “the bosses said we was short by almost two ’undred. They’re comin’ down to find out what’s goin’ on.” He summed up, “if we’re short, we’ll be dogmeat.”
“Yeah,” agreed Outy, “short of dogmeat.”
Prudently, Horn agreed, nonverbally.
Arriving at the shed, no attempt was made to use the front. Apparently it was locked. Inny and Outy were supposed to be locked in for security reasons.
Considering it had been so easy to get in at the side, Horn asked if the lock was to keep the stock safe or them safe.
Outy said “Yeah.”
Inny shrugged, and dropped a couple of wine bags.
Horn decided against follow-up questions.
Round at the side, the three armadillos threw their bundles onto the heap on the grass already there. Inny and Outy got in through the hole. Horn immediately starting flinging wine bags through the gap. Hard at it, he didn’t hear a group coming towards him.
Three aristocratic looking English Pointers and a very businesslike wolf came to a stop at a safe distance from the heap of bags and the action. They had circled the shed, passed the pile of bags, gone all the way round and were coming back with the two dropped by Inny.
The first Horn heard was a gentle clearing of a throat.
Looking up, he reacted as if he had hit them with a bag and stared at them in horror as his little world imploded.
“What are you doing?” asked one expensively groomed pointer.
I’m a dead duck, thought Horn, this is the end.
24 LAND’S END
After many weeks, Stump had reached the sea near Neese. There was nowhere further to go. Not impressed at seeing the river discharging out to sea, he thought, What a waste! To come all that way, just to do that? Not that he knew much about the river. It passed near Diddling and he assumed it was always the same river. He like seeing it occasionally, l
ike an old friend. It was going somewhere, so was he.
The sea disturbed him. All motion yet endless emptiness. It took the river and did what? Nothing. He felt it wanted to drown him and everything else. To prove his point, it smelt. Something smelt. A pervasive, possessive smell. Seaweed? Dead fish? Dead something.
He tried fresh fish. That was better. At least it smelt better. But as a diet? Too rich. An exotic luxury maybe, but unnecessary. The other things on offer like octopus and mussels? Yuk. Prawns were fun. No reason, but they were crunchy. So maybe something positive came of his visit.
He had gone into the town but not very far. Too large. From what he had seen, there was too much business and bustle and not enough space to do it. The closer he got to what he assumed was the centre, the more crowded it got. ‘Holiday makers?’ what could that mean? He learnt a holiday was a time for doing nothing. That’s a contradiction in itself! Or I must have misunderstood. Apparently a lot of weirdos in Neese were on a convection or something. Practicing not doing anything? How long would that take? It seemed a waste of time just to come for a waste of time.
Halfway back to Muddle, he realised he hadn’t tried crab. Well, next time. He certainly wasn’t going back just for that. Actually, he wanted nothing more than to get away from the sea air. It seemed to follow him with dead things for ever. Maybe he had arrived at a wrong moment, but he just couldn’t shake off that smell.
25 ROLLING WITH THE PUNCHES
“Leave this to me,” said the wolf and addressed Horn. “Listen sonny, I’ve just bought out these gents. I now own more companies than you’ve got teeth. I’ve got more businesses than you’ve had suppers. I’ve got more odds and sods working for me than you’ve got fleas. I’ve just spent more mulberries on this place than you could count in an hour.” He took a deep breath and carried on.
A Tour de Fate Page 6