Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  I was reasonably sure I wasn’t going to like what came next. Since that was true of so much of life, I pressed on anyway.

  ‘So?’ I asked.

  ‘So,’ Hood went on abstractedly, ‘they thought it would be a whole lot easier all round just to get out any old mothballed prototype capable of making the trip, strap a baby-nuke to its belly and send it on a one way mission to Mars, Cydonia Region, 41NOT North, 10NOT West. That way, the Soviets don’t get there first and maybe discover the secrets of the universe and take over said universe. “How sad,” we say, “our probe has crashed—set up a day of national mourning”—you get the picture?’

  We did.

  Hood shrugged.

  ‘It didn’t seem right somehow. I “liberated” the photos and a load of other stuff and went rogue on the Army. Now I hide out places and send the info I’ve got to various VIPs.’

  Mr Disvan stirred in his seat.

  ‘At which point,’ he said, ‘you come in, Mr Oakley.’

  All sorts of adrenaline-based alarm bells went off within me. I had visions of American firing squads (my British passport notwithstanding) or men in mirror shades visiting my home.

  ‘Oh no I don’t!’ I said, Martian patriotism being a very weak force in my make-up.

  ‘We’d like you to post a few letters for Mr Hood,’ Disvan continued, entirely ignoring my lightning fast response, ‘because if they’re sent from this area, the postmark might give him away.’

  This was a whole different kettle of fish, and a task equal to my courage and commitment to the cause.

  ‘That’s different,’ I said boldly. ‘Of course I’ll do that. I could send a few from the City. Some of my colleagues can post others when they’re in the States or Japan or wherever.’

  Hood nodded his appreciation and handed me several thick envelopes from his jacket pocket.

  Mr Disvan also seemed pleased. ‘Wherever—as you say, Mr Oakley,’ he agreed, ‘so long as it’s not Binscombe.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound much,’ said Hood, ‘but who knows, it might just stop them nuking “the little house on the prairie” before the Commies get there.’

  He sighed and put his hand to his brow.

  ‘Hell, what’s happening to me, I already sound just like a Commie!’

  This was an interesting sort of moral wrestling match to watch but, more pressingly, something in Disvan’s last comment had raised a query in my mind.

  ‘Just for the record,’ I asked, ‘why are you in Binscombe of all places?’

  ‘It’s a simple story, Mr O. The USA got too hot. “They” are very good at pursuit. They’ve got the money and patience. Just about every place I ever visited in my life got a call from the men in dark suits—y’know, guys who look like Mormons only with tailored shoulder holsters instead of Good News. Man, I was so radioactive even my service pals couldn’t cache me away. It was either defect—and probably get swopped straight back—or hit the roots trail. You see, my grandpappy was a Brit—’

  ‘Englishman,’ said Mr Disvan sharply.

  ‘Same thing. From round these parts. He told me all sorts of stories about this here Bins-combe, said it was a place of final refuge and other kinds of other weirdo stuff. I thought I might as well check it out. Turns out he was right and my instincts were spot on. People here have been real good to me.’

  Any sort of compliment, however oblique, tended to embarrass Mr Disvan. He brushed Hood’s evident gratitude aside with a muttered comment about ‘lost sheep’.

  ‘Anyhow,’ said Hood, rising to his feet, ‘I’d best be off to my hole. Don’t forget those packages, Mr O. They’re mighty important one way or another.’

  I briefly examined Hood’s letters. One was addressed to the Pope, the other to the Soviet ambassador. Nervously stashing them beneath the tablecloth as fresh doubts assailed me, I assured Mr Hood that both he and the Martians could rely on me.

  ‘Glad to hear, Mr O. Thanks for the fish and fries.’

  ‘And chips,’ corrected Disvan.

  ‘Whatever. By the way, Mr Disvan, I might as well warn you. There’ll be another hit on Thursday. Funds are running low.’

  Mr Disvan nodded his agreement to whatever this signified.

  ‘So long, Mr O,’ said Hood. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  Mustering up some kind of farewell, I wondered whether to add ‘have a nice day’—and decided against it.

  As Mr Hood left, I noticed the unjust, unfair combination of Disvan’s empty vodka glass and his sober state. In the past I thought he either tipped the stuff away or else was in training for some alcohol Olympics. Now that I knew better, it was clear that drink just didn’t affect him (so why did he bother?). People joked that he was blessed with hollow legs. Hollow or not, he seemed steady on them as he also rose to go.

  Leaving other worlds aside for a moment, there were still a few things I didn’t understand. Short of barring the door, I wasn’t going to allow Disvan to get away without settling these sleep disturbing loose ends. Come to think of it, perhaps I’d had enough wine to even try the door-barring scenario. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘What was that about a “hit”, Mr Disvan?’ I asked. ‘Surely he doesn’t...’

  ‘No, he doesn’t mean that,’ said Disvan confidently, ‘although, given his background, I can understand your anxiety. What he was referring to was some form of robbery—an equity or mortgage fraud I expect. Out of courtesy he wanted to keep us informed before we read about it in the papers. I’ll give you an example. Remember that last Dollar/Deutschmark exchange scare?’

  ‘Do I! My firm lost a packet in that and it turned out there was no foundation to it.’

  ‘Yes there was, Mr Oakley: Mr Hood. He engineered it. He’s now got the packet your firm lost.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Really. You see, Mr Hood was trained in what are apparently known as “covert operations relating to developed economies”, so he’s very good at that sort of thing. You’ll doubtless appreciate his dilemma. He has to generate income, what with his enormous postage and photocopying bills and so on, and yet honest endeavours aren’t an option open to him. Is he committing crime or not, I wonder? At least it gets him away from destabilising South America.’

  ‘Er... yes,’ I said, accepting the point if not the principle.

  ‘After all,’ Disvan continued affably, ‘he is only robbing the rich to give to the poor. The poor Martians in this case.’

  This struck a chord but I didn’t place it.

  ‘But does he need to live in the woods?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t he stay in a house? Wouldn’t he be just as safe or unsafe there?’

  Mr Disvan nodded.

  ‘At present, yes. Unfortunately, his enemies are both persistent and thorough. When they’ve exhausted all of his contemporary contacts, they’ll set to work on antecedents. One day—it may be sooner, it may be later—they’ll come to Binscombe. It’s best he’s off the streets before that day comes.’

  This seemed a trifle over-cautious and I was going to say as much. However, Mr Disvan hadn’t quite finished.

  ‘But it’s not only that, Mr Oakley,’ he said as he struggled into his coat. ‘Having Mr Hood living out in the woods also appeals to our sense of the appropriate—if you see what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said, feeling slow-witted, ‘not really.’

  ‘Well,’ said Disvan patiently, ‘it was him that chose the name, so in one sense we’re only obliging the man. Perhaps destiny gave him a prod. Anyhow, from now on, as his clothes get old and wear out, we’ll replace them with garments of green. We’ll give him a bow and arrow to hunt deer and rabbits, on the grounds that it’s quieter than a gun. We’ll find him something—a motorbike maybe—to ride through the glen on. Bit by bit we’ll give him a new and better role in life.’

  He frowned and then smiled.

  ‘Finding Friar Tuck may prove a bit of a problem but, on the bright side, there’s a local girl called Marion who’s taken a r
eal shine to our Mr Hood. Who can say what might come of it? And I do believe that the Americans have a saying that covers such situations, Mr Oakley...’

  I buried my brow in my hand.

  ‘Go on, hit me,’ I said, resignedly.

  The choice of phrase raised an eyebrow, but didn’t stop him.

  ‘What goes around, comes around.’

  * * *

  About a year later, I saw an olive-green helicopter swooping over Binscombe Ridge—possibly in all innocence, possibly not. Unbeknown to the pilot, he was sped on his way by an arrow from deep within the trees.

  HELLO DOLLY

  ‘It all started one sunny afternoon, long ago,’ murmured the woman, leaning back and languidly crossing her long legs. ‘A long time ago, it all started with a ringing noise...’

  ‘Really?’ I replied with a weak smile. This was no longer the easy pick-up I’d anticipated. Clammy tendrils of unease were stealthily moving in on my mind.

  I’d gone to the Argyll, in all innocence, for a simple drink and chat. However, the sight of this lady—young, attractive and cotton-clad—alone in the beer-garden, had set off ancient, automatic systems in me. The innocent plans were revised forthwith. My shallowness, I should say, was just something I’d come to terms with long ago. It did, at least, make a person reasonably single-minded.

  I had introduced myself and asked for permission to join her. The welcome seemed genuine enough and all the looked-for signals were present and correct. Light talk ensued and I was about to go buy some drinks when she suddenly said, ‘Let me tell you about my childhood.’

  I paused, halfway out of my seat, en route to the bar. To be absolutely honest, I didn’t care two hoots about her past or future—or anything else save the night ahead. Even so, something in her voice stunned me like the proverbial ox and it wasn’t only politeness that made me say, ‘Yes, please do,’ and sit down again.

  At that point, the woman looked more ravishing than ever—almost artificial in her beauty. The heavy make-up which would have overwhelmed other faces seemed to suit her, to raise her above normal femininity. She was, to coin a phrase, full of Binscombe promise.

  During the first mention of the ‘ringing noise’ and so on, I glimpsed a familiar face pressed to one of the Argyll’s windows. Mr Disvan was observing my rake’s progress—or present lack of progress. I wasn’t too concerned. I knew I could rely on him not to be a bore about my lack of honourable intentions. Anyway, I’d enough problems on my plate as it was, and was reduced to covering my confusion with the feeble, ‘Really?’ mentioned above.

  Was it Proust who’d said that a man might sleep with any woman he pleased if he had but the patience to listen to her troubles? Cynic though I was, life had given me reason to believe there was more than a molecule of truth in this. Accordingly, I’d long cultivated the art of listening.

  ‘My parents named me Linda,’ the woman whispered to me, making the simple statement sound like an invitation to amend that to anything—anything—I wanted.

  ‘Oh... um, that’s a very nice name,’ I replied and, in moving my mouth, found an involuntary silly grin occupying my face.

  ‘And my surname is Disch,’ she went on.

  ‘And what a dish!’ I said, still fighting that damned grin. It was all going wrong. Why was I coming out with this sub-Benny Hill material?

  Mercifully, the woman laughed—and yet there was no merriment in it. She was becoming increasingly desirable by the minute, while I was getting more gauche and tongue-tied. Who was picking up whom?

  The answer to that was soon supplied. The woman, ‘Linda’, leaned very close and fixed me with her huge dark eyes. A snowy-white hand edged across the table towards mine.

  ‘I want you,’ she said.

  Her breath was urgent and humid, like a cellar filled with anticipation.

  ‘Well, you can’t have him—back off!’

  Mr Disvan’s voice broke the spell. I looked round to see that a veritable posse had emerged from the Argyll. Disvan led the force, followed close behind by Messrs Bretwalda, Patel and Limbu, Doctor Bani-Sadr, the landlord et al.

  The woman span round to face the mob and then slumped resignedly back.

  ‘Oakley, come away!’ thundered Mr Bretwalda from halfway down the beer-garden. That was all I needed. If the woman was anything to do with him then my evening might well end in dismemberment.

  Linda gave me a wicked little smile.

  ‘Maybe some other time,’ she said in a distant voice.

  By now, the Binscomite 7th Cavalry were upon us and my attention was distracted. They surged about a bit and contrived to put a human wall between me and the unfortunate Disch lady. I was wondering which one of us it was that had transgressed (and chivalrously hoping it was her) when Disvan put the matter to rest.

  ‘You promised, you wicked woman!’ I heard him say. ‘You gave your word.’

  From my position behind the south face of Mount Bretwalda, I couldn’t see what was going on but it clearly wasn’t me that was being rebuked. That was good news in itself although also a bit annoying in a way. Were they implying that I was beyond redemption?

  ‘I did promise,’ came the woman’s voice, heavy with tearful emotion, ‘I did promise.’

  ‘Well, it’s not good enough’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr.

  ‘Not by a bloody long chalk,’ added Mr Bretwalda.

  At this point I managed to break through the barricade of flesh, determined to remind these people that I was alive—and upset.

  ‘And what the hell,’ I said boldly, ‘do you mean by... Hang on, where’s she gone?’

  ‘I haven’t gone anywhere,’ said the woman, ‘I’m still here, stupid.’

  So she was—and yet not. The restraint-threatening houri of a minute ago was replaced by a quite passable but altogether less glorious creature. Yet, now that I looked closely, I could see the connection between the two. Had it been a lucky effect of the light or the inflammation of passion that had caused the trick, I wondered? I was also sufficiently undiscouraged as to speculate whether said trick was repeatable.

  Mr Disvan was looking around and, for the first time, seemed taken aback by the minor mob that had accompanied him.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said in a raised voice, ‘we’ve saved him from his folly. That’s the end of the matter I think.’

  ‘It’d better be,’ said Mr Bretwalda darkly, looking directly at the woman, ‘because next time…’

  And here, both he and the ever smiling Mr Limbu (one-time Gurkha sergeant) drew horizontal fingers across their respective throats in a desperately eloquent gesture.

  My jaw hit my chest (well, almost) but fortunately no words would come to me as the crowd mumbled off back into the pub. Mr Disvan remained behind.

  ‘Mr Oakley,’ he said, in a reasonably kindly tone, ‘you’re struck comical. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Um... well...’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You just recovered. Meanwhile, let me introduce you to Mrs, I stress Mrs, Disch. Mrs Disch please meet, albeit briefly, Mr Oakley.’

  I nodded at her as though we’d really just clapped eyes on each other.

  ‘Mrs Disch, divorced,’ added the woman sulkily.

  Disvan joined us at the table without invitation.

  ‘Divorced—whatever,’ he agreed (I think).

  A long and embarrassing silence followed, save that the embarrassment seemed to give Mr Disvan a miss. He gazed round the garden happily enough and whistled tunelessly through his teeth. Linda Disch studied her crimson talons with great absorption.

  I began to get the feeling I’d been caught red-handed in furtive self-abuse and was correspondingly irritated. Who the hell did the Binscomites think they were, Sicilian chaperons?

  ‘I take it there’s no sympathy for romance round here,’ I said suddenly, trying to maintain the sense of outrage. It worried Disvan as little as a sheep’s growl. He considered the question at length before replying.

  ‘I wouldn’
t care to say, Mr Oakley. I should imagine there’s as much or little of it here as anywhere. Why do you ask?’

  Some support from Linda Disch would have nice but she continued to hang her head.

  ‘Why? You are joking, I hope,’ I ranted. ‘Bretwalda and Limbu threatened this poor woman with a slit throat because of the possibility of us two... well, you know...’

  ‘No, I don’t actually,’ said Disvan, in all seriousness. ‘Tell me.’

  I was losing on points here, I realised that. Unwisely, I turned to the last shelf in the armoury—sarcasm.

  ‘Oh... forget it! It’s just that I didn’t know Islamic law had been imposed in Binscombe. Are we going to get stoned for our transgressions?’

  Disvan looked contemplative.

  ‘Well, your drinking habits are a matter for you alone, Mr Oakley. As for the Islamic thing, I’m certainly not aware of it. Mind you, it’s a most interesting speculation. The Sharia in Binscombe. I wonder...’

  My little jibe hadn’t been intended to fashion an alternate world for Mr Disvan to play in. I needed to think of something a mite less subtle to blast through his defences of indifference. Before I could do so, Disvan made a pre-emptive strike, with Israeli-style success.

  ‘I suppose it was the “childhood and ringing noise” ploy she used on you,’ he said abruptly. ‘Am I right?’

  I tried to regroup under cover of saying ‘Pardon?’ and feigning puzzlement but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Linda Disch’s pout similarly gave the game away.

  ‘I can see that it was,’ he went on, matter of factly. ‘Well, Mr Oakley, since I detect that your below-waist impulses continue to overrule those of the higher regions, you might as well hear the full spiel. If you’re not restored to reason by that, then by all means go ahead with my blessing. Go wherever your decision takes you.’

  He chuckled at some private joke and then clearly felt the need to make amends.