Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  “You’re quite the philosopher, aren’t you!”, Dexter laughed.

  “Not really.”, Dave replied, “It’s bread and butter to me. Some people develop other skills; languages, engine maintenance, computer coding. Me, I make my living from learning how to read people. And you’d be amazed at the places that skill has led me to. I’ve stopped celebrities from overdosing at the last minute. The same celebrities who, if you believe Facebook and the like, have thousands of so-called friends. I’ve made grown men crumble at my feet in tears by touching on their deepest anxieties. I’ve helped avert war between big nations and I’ve talked hostage-takers into surrender. All because I can truly get to know the basest motivations of the people I meet. It isn’t always instant, but I can pretty much read anyone I have to. And it’s why I’m successful at what I do. Because, when you can read people, you can manipulate them.”

  “And we manipulate Jones via his loneliness?”

  “Exactly.”

  “By doing what?”

  “By giving him what he needs.”, Dave settled back in his chair as he replied, “We give him friendship. We make him feel less alone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dexter was very much the peripheral player in the strategy that Dave worked methodically through as he befriended Elliott Jones. It made sense. Firstly, Dexter was tied up for large periods of time in negotiations over some very lucrative deals, thoroughly enjoying the process as he secured extraordinarily good terms on property after property. More importantly though, if Dave was right and Jones was in need of a friend, it would look very suspicious if, like buses, two turned up at once.

  Watching from the side-lines, Dexter saw a new side to Dave and it took him some time to get used to the notion that the aggressive, results-driven enforcer that he had known, was revealing himself to be just as adept in the touchy-feely role of counsellor and healer. If loneliness was Jones’ problem, then that loneliness had a root cause. Everything began somewhere. What Dave had to do was establish that root cause and use it for his advantage. It could be any one of a number of possibilities. The most likely, at least by any conventional psychological approach, was the damage done to Jones in his formative years with The Circle. Maybe it did all boil down to that period, but there were other factors too, ones which Dave was more comfortable to probe.

  He based his approach on the deep knowledge that he had of Jones’ life and circumstances over the past twenty years or so. Painstaking research had helped him build up an accurate profile of the man he was targeting. Research that he backed up with insider knowledge gleaned from numerous and varied reliable sources. He didn’t want to reach out to too many third-parties, given that The Circle was almost certainly aware of the building threat against them, however, there were times when it was necessary. By the time he was ready to start work on Jones, he knew more about the character of the man than the man himself did, and was comfortable that he had enough to do what needed to be done. It would all be about the quality of the contact rather than the quantity, and the vast store of prior knowledge that he now carried would enable him to make that quality count.

  He started off with dogs. They weren’t allowed on the golf course or in any parts of the grounds. Jones himself didn’t have one at his house. And yet, the profile he’d built offered this up to Dave as a sound way to begin befriending Jones.

  “Another fine day.”, he mumbled as he settled near to Jones on the sun-drenched terrace of the club house.

  “Yes. As always.”, Jones replied politely bit drily.

  “You don’t mind my smoking?”, the absent-minded professor waved his cigar.

  “Not at all.”, Jones lifted his own hand to reveal a similar cigar, “That’s why we sit out here, isn’t it?”

  Dave smiled and settled back to enjoy the view over the greens. He’d established his presence and that was enough for now. He opened the book he carried and drew gently on his cigar as he lifted his glasses to read the smallish print. It didn’t look like he was working, but this was the hardest part of what he was doing. He needed Jones to reach out to him. And to facilitate that, he simply needed to be there and to be available.

  An hour passed without any other words passing between them. Several other members came out onto the terrace, each dropping a few words of courteous small-talk but none staying for long. Jones was engrossed in the puzzle of the paperwork that was laid out on the table before him, his calculator rattling away as he scribbled notes on the accounts that he’d been asked to make that little bit less taxable. He knew all the relevant tax rules and laws that applied in the country and he knew also how best to interpret those rules to advantage. That said, despite his unpleasant dealing with HMRC in the UK, the work he did for other club members was legally bulletproof. It wasn’t always in the spirit of the law, but it remained within its boundaries.

  Dave sneezed twice. Then he sneezed again. The sneezes were loud enough to jolt Jones out of his thinking.

  “Bless you.”, he murmured in Dave’s general direction as he used a small eraser to remove the pencil strike that the sneeze had caused him to mar his meticulous paperwork with.

  “Thank you, and apologies.”, Dave stood as he replied, “Sometimes I can’t help it. Dog hairs. These old tweeds of mine probably aren’t the most practical clothes to wear when you spend so much time with the hounds, but I’m too much of a creature of habit to change now.”

  “I’d better go and get another drink.”, he continued as he brushed vigorously at his trousers legs, “Do you want anything?”

  Jones looked at the empty glass at his side.

  “Gin and tonic, if you don’t mind.”, he replied, “Ask them to put it on my tab. Jones, E. They know how I like it.”

  On his return, the drink placed carefully next to Jones’ paperwork, Dave chose to settle in a different chair. One that was that little bit closer to Jones. He carried on reading, glancing occasionally at Jones’ progress and lighting another cigar to while away the time.

  “So,”, Jones closed his folder and pocketed the retractable pencil that was clearly not a disposable item, then turned to Dave, “what sort of dog do you have?”

  “Dogs.”, he replied, laying his book down on the floor, “Three, all told. Two classic Spanish strays that found me. I took them back after previous trips. Have to be careful I don’t meet anymore this time as the inn is definitely full just now. One’s a little Jack Russel cross, the other’s a big lug of a Labrador.”

  “Then,”, he continued after a brief pause, “there’s my special boy. Toby the Otterhound. He’s the reason I only get away for short breaks. He misses me and, sad as it may seem, I miss him too.”

  “A rare breed.”, Jones replied, “The Otterhound. Used to have one myself. I lost him just before I came over. Couldn’t bear to get another though. But, you’re right, the temptation’s there every day when you see the number on the streets here. I guess that’s what makes we Brits that bit different. They’re more than just animals to us.”

  What followed was a conversation carefully led and steered by Dave. They talked dogs, and Otterhounds in particular, for half an hour. It wasn’t the sort of conversation that any Hollywood producer would script into a screenplay. It was just one of those millions of exchanges of words that happen every day, all over the world and which are memorable only for the connection they make between the participants. Which is all Dave wanted from that particular conversation, and which is exactly what he achieved.

  Two days later, they talked about family. The day after that, the subjects, as they shared a round of eighteen holes, ranged from Scotch whisky to religion. A week after they first spoke, the gap in time being deliberate on Dave’s part, they shared drinks on the terrace and talked about death.

  “You’re widowed then?”, Jones took the bait easily.

  “Three years now.”, Dave sighed, “Sally was a good ‘un. We had thr
ee decades together and we had time to say goodbye.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “It took the one I loved as well.”, Jones seemed slightly reticent to say more.

  “How long ago?”, Dave leaned in closely to Jones and let his stance relax, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “No, that’s fine.”, the reply was accompanied by a long pause that Dave wasn’t going to break, “Five years for me now. We were only married for ten. I’d always thought I was a confirmed bachelor until I met Helen, but she stole my heart. Soppy, I know. We thought we’d have years ahead of us and then she started with a few twinges, went through the usual tests and, before either of us could get to grips with the diagnosis, she was breathing her last in a hospice.”

  Despite his prior knowledge of Jones and what he knew the man to be capable of, Dave began to feel a genuine sympathy for him as they continued to talk about the trials and challenges of bereavement and the painful hollow it left in one’s heart. Dave was well able to talk from experience on this particular subject, even if the people involved had no relation to the fictitious character he was playing. He’d lost everybody dear to him over the years and in circumstances that made the destructive force of cancer seem nothing more than a gentle breeze. Those deaths had made him what he was today, but he kept them to himself. Nonetheless, the experience of them was proving to be particularly useful at that moment.

  “I’m grateful to you for sharing so much.”, Dave let his voice drop into full psychotherapy mode, “Those left behind seem to be the real victims of death and it’s rare to find the opportunity to share.”

  “You’re right there.”, Jones sighed, “All the expressions of sympathy soon fade away and the reality is that nobody really wants to listen to your pain after a while. Why should they? It may be true that a problem shared is a problem halved, but those who are willing to take on half of your suffering are few and far between. I found that the best way was to simply get on with life. One death is enough without a living death trailing behind it.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”, Dave replied, “And you’re so right. I lost a lot of friends when I lost Sally. Partly because we did so much together but mainly because those friendships were very fragile in the first place. They held up fine when we were having fun together, but they quickly fell apart when they demanded shared suffering.”

  “Then again.”, Jones finished off his drink and stubbed his cigar in the ashtray, “You can’t really blame them. I’ve done the same myself too many times. You just have to accept it and move on, knowing that you’ve still got a life to lead but that you have to live that life now with a few scars that won’t heal.”

  The sun was setting by the time they finished talking and they parted with a handshake. The bond between them was drawing closer. If not yet friends, they were now more than mere acquaintances and there seemed little reason to suppose that they wouldn’t continue to develop a stronger relationship.

  As their second week in Spain was drawing to a close, Dave introduced Dexter to Jones. They were staying at the same hotel, he explained, although they went back many years over in the UK and had been surprised to bump into each other. Dexter’s appearance was meticulously planned. He would put the final seal on things and forever endear Jones to Harrison.

  “Has the old boy told you why he’s over here?”, Dexter asked Jones.

  “Please, Bob, I thought I told you…”, Dave’s reply was cut short by his friend.

  “Oh, don’t be so modest.”, Dexter laughed, “I’m sure Elliott here would love to know.”

  “Now I’m intrigued.”, Jones laughed, “He told me he was just having a short holiday. Is that not true?”

  “He keeps his light under a bushel just a little too much.”, Dexter replied, placing a friendly hand on Dexter’s arm, “You see, our friend Professor Richard Harrison here, is also a patron of the arts and, very soon, thanks to his generous funding, Harrison Hall will rise up in this locality and provide a much-needed source of entertainment to us all.”

  “A theatre?”, Jones asked excitedly.

  “And more.”, Dexter replied, “It’ll be a fully-fledged Arts Centre, offering theatre, cinema and an art gallery. And it’ll be catering to the ex-pats primarily. British acts, British shows, local am-dram Gilbert and Sullivan’s and every variation in between. You like the idea?”

  “I love it.”, Jones had never been this animated in all the conversations that Dave had had with him, “It’s the thing I miss the most about being out of England. The West End, the theatre, the London nightlife. You just don’t get anything like it here.”

  The response wasn’t unexpected. Jones, for all the seediness of his past life, had a hidden passion for the West End that only rigorous investigation had revealed. In a way, it made a lot of sense. Theatre was escapism and escapism that was safe in so many ways. You enjoyed it individually but in a crowd. You switched off from the world for those few hours as the music played and the action took you away to different worlds. And it was escapism that you too could be involved in. Jones had played numerous roles over the years. None of them had ever projected him into stardom, but each of them had given him the chance to be another person for a while. The promise of being able to escape again was almost too much for him.

  “When does it open?”, he asked.

  “Should be fully functioning in a couple of months.”, Dexter replied, “At least, we hope it is, since Richard’s already booked a short season for the London cast of Cats to appear then. I take it you’ll be in the audience?”

  “It is, I must admit,”, Jones replied coyly, “something of a weakness of mine. Richard, you should have told me. We must toast your enterprise. What say you and Bob join me for dinner at my house tomorrow? Of course, if you can, it would be great if you could bring me the plans of the theatre. I can’t wait to see what it will look like.”

  “We can do better than that.”, Dexter replied, “We can bring you one of the models of the final design to look at. Come to think of it, we could leave it with you to drum up patronage. If you like the proposal, who knows, maybe you could be the first of our official patrons?”

  With the arrangements made, Dexter and Dave left the golf club feeling both triumphant and rotten. Triumphant, because they had drawn Jones into their confidence and would be able to explore his home for any further leads they could find on the activity of The Circle. Rotten, because they knew that it was all a lie and that Jones could only come out of this with a broken heart.

  “All’s fair in love and war.”, Dave broke the silence as they drove their rental car back to the hotel.

  “That’s what they say.”, Dexter replied, “Nevertheless, I still can’t help liking the guy.”

  “It doesn’t get any easier, you know. But you have to stay focused on what it’s all about. No matter how much we might like him now, we can’t lose sight of what he’s done in the past.”

  “No, I know you’re right.”

  “That said,”, Dave continued, “we can adjust our plans if you want to. Jones’s role in The Circle remains hidden. If we can get the information we need without destroying him, I could live with that. He has to have some records in his place. There’s no way that he would destroy any names he had. The Circle is too much of a threat to all of its previous members, they need some sort of defence against attack. We’ve got access to that property now. It’s buttoned down tightly, but I suspect that the security inside is pretty much the same as we found with Samson. If we get the records, I’ll leave it with you to decide the level of retribution against Jones.”

  “But if we leave things as they are, and the theatre never materialises, doesn’t that raise other issues?”

  “As I say,”, Dave pulled the car into the hotel’s underground car park and killed the engine, “I’ll leave the final decision with you. He can’t escape f
rom this without some sort of hurt and uncertainty. We’re too far along for that to happen. Remember, you signed us up for this. Nobody ever said it would be pleasant. Besides, you may want to go ahead with the theatre after all. Golf isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Because Harrison Hall was an entirely fictitious construct, the model that they’d promised to show to Jones, and indeed, the plans that he wanted to see, simply didn’t exist. The problem wasn’t insurmountable, but it did mean that both Dexter and Dave worked late into the night to create something that would pass muster. Fortunately, they were close enough to a city that had an all-night supermarket, from where they were able to cobble together enough resources to create a passable representation of the new theatre that would never be.

  Tired from their activities, they managed to snatch a couple of hours of sleep which refreshed them just enough to ensure that they would be able to stay sharp and move the evening in their direction once they’d arrived at Jones’ villa. Prior to their departure, Dave packed the rolled-up line drawings and components of the model in a large holdall, which he further loaded with a few other essential items that he was never without and which might be of use if things went slightly off plan.

  Jones’ villa was in a mainstream development but had been one of the earliest units built and therefore benefited from a strange remoteness that had been guaranteed by numerous covenants which the developers now regretted agreeing to. Several of his neighbours had approached him with a view to buying the place, but he treasured that unique isolation too much. The surrounding properties were well appointed, secure and all had beautiful views, but only his had a private access road which kept it just that little bit apart from the discrete but ever-present security that cost every resident a substantial sum each month.