by Tim Orchard
Simp looked at him sideways and sighed. Still building himself up. Simp had seen it all before. If it wasn’t “Midnight Train to Georgia,” it would be something else to gee up the nervous system. He’d been with Carter since forever, but everything changes, sometimes slowly, and sometimes it is just the end, over. This was both. Ideas had been simmering in Simp’s head from before they came to the island. Simp had been looking at himself, at the future. He was creeping past forty. He’d done well financially, but the future for someone with his particular skill set didn’t get better as you got older. The island was like the glimpse of another world. Carter didn’t see it. Couldn’t see either that they’d both got away with it for an awful long time, that they had been lucky, and how much money does anyone need, anyway? He drove and said nothing. He’d attempted, more than once, to talk Carter out of the confrontation he was sure they were heading into. “Pay them,” he’d said. “Just give them the money, we won’t lose out.” Carter’s response had been the usual “Money’s money. I ain’t giving it away to them or anyone.” Simp didn’t want to go down to the island and hurt anyone. He’d reached a point where he was getting sick of it. Carter, the business, all of it.
At Dymchurch they found the ferrymen, Tony and his son, Dave, lounging on the dock. At first, Carter couldn’t believe the ferry didn’t run on a Sunday. He puffed out his chest and strode about. “Typical, leave the Smoke and it’s like going back a fucking hundred years!”
The ferrymen were unmoved by the differences between city and country and talked instead about the difficulties involved in moving the ferry. They muttered on about their license being revoked if they were reported, about their need for a rest day, but didn’t say no way. They quibbled and groused and scratched their heads and picked their teeth, and in the end, it cost Carter five hundred quid. Before they got going, Dave popped into their house and phoned Postmistress P, who alerted the waiting islanders.
They tied up at the island dock and the BMW and the panel van trundled off. Carter was expecting Amber to be waiting. When she wasn’t, they turned slowly onto the village street. It was deserted. The two vehicles crawled slowly along. Outside the post office, Carter, as though he were Ward Bond from Wagon Train, held a hand up out of the car window and called a halt. Carter and Simp got out and Carter peered through the shop window into the darkened interior.
Simp said, “It’s Sunday, it’s closed.”
Carter said, “I fucking know that, don’t I?” Still, he reached for the door handle and began to rattle it. To both their surprise, the handle turned and the door swung open. It was cool and dim inside the shop, smelling of cleaning fluid and dry pet food and something else both recognized. They inched forward, hunched, ready for an ambush. Nothing happened.
At the post office counter, on the scales, weighing in at exactly half a pound, was a brown paper package tied up with string. Neither Carter nor Simp needed to be told what it held, the smell was enough. Carter reached down, pulled up the leg of his trousers, took the Stanley knife from the sheath strapped to his calf, and cut the string. Inside the packet was a pile of his own grass. He kicked out at the base of the counter. “What’s this? What are they doing? Where the fuck is Amber?”
Simp shrugged. “Are these like more of those rhetorical questions? Because if they are like real questions, then I don’t know.”
Stalking toward the door, the package under his arm, Carter snapped, “Shut up with that shit. Something’s wrong, something’s always wrong on this fucking island.”
Outside, Carter went to the panel van. The driver rolled down the window as he approached. “What’s going on, boss?”
Thrusting the package of grass into the man’s hand, Carter slowly shook his head, like he was surrounded by idiots. “How the fuck do you expect me to know, you twat? I got here the same time as you. Now, look after this.”
Leaving the vehicles and the men where they were, Simp and Carter walked the few yards to the vicar’s house. Carter’s eyes were beginning to itch. He rubbed them and blinked. He said, “If he’s in there, I’m bringing him with us.”
Simp sighed. “I thought you never wanted to see him again after last time.”
Carter looked down at himself. He touched the lapels of the suit, straightened the skinny tie, and continued: “Like a bargaining chip, you know? Who wants to see their dill of a rev hurt, eh? Nobody, not even this bunch of fucking heathens.”
The door was ajar. Inside all was quiet. On the table in the living room were a pack of cards and another package of grass. Hardly calm, Carter rushed through the house, up and down and in every room. Empty. While he was gone, Simp got a glass of water from the kitchen and a couple of the pills from his pocket, and when Carter came back into the living room, he handed the medication to his boss. Pushing the glass of water aside, Carter pulled his flask from his pocket and swallowed the pills with a long hit of whiskey.
Back on the village street again, Carter handed the grass into the van. Under his breath, one of the guys said, “It’s going to take years to collect it like this.”
Carter stuck his head through the van window. “What did you say?”
The man held up his hands. “Nothing, boss, nothing.”
Back in the car with Simp, Carter said, “What do these carrot crunchers think this is, a fucking treasure hunt?”
The mini-convoy trundled on to the church, where it stopped again. The church doors were wide open. Simp said, “Maybe he’s in the church.” For some reason, the wide-open doors made Carter a tad more nervous than anything else. This time he called the four men from the van, and the six of them entered the church together, mob handed.
It was all cool and airy and empty, and the men stood there, looking at the bare whitewashed walls, the aged wooden pews, the cross and its bloody burden, the unpretentious altar. Quietly, Simp said, “First time I’ve been in church for years. It’s kind of nice in here, peaceful.”
Carter gave Simp a disbelieving look. “What’s the matter with you, you going soft or something?”
It wasn’t worth Simp answering. Instead, leaving the other goondas standing there like a bunch of plonkers with brain damage, Simp followed Carter up the nave to the altar. It wasn’t much of a surprise to see the brown paper parcel, foursquare, where the Bible would usually be. Carter slammed his fist down on the altar. He wanted to desecrate: burn, smash, whatever. It was in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, the jerking movements of his body. Simp could see it all. Almost gently, he put his arm around Carter and led him from the church.
Outside, Simp tried again to remonstrate with Carter, to get him to see reason, but it was useless and his temper only got worse, as they noticed a front tire on each of the vehicles had been punctured while they had been inside, and it didn’t help that Carter’s sinuses were becoming blocked and his eyes, gummed and rheumy. Simp offered antihistamines. Carter slapped them away. “I don’t need them. I don’t need anything.”
It took almost forty minutes to change the two wheels and, as if trying to wear a trough in the asphalt, Carter marched back and forth, back and forth, the whole time, wondering what the fuck had happened to Amber. Finally, the caravan started up again, and Carter and Simp followed Amber’s instructions to the farm, where the dope was supposedly being kept. It wasn’t hard. Both remembered the track down to the bay and the farm they had passed on the way. It was made easier for them by the packet of grass taped to the open farm gate. In the yard, two of the goons pulled back the big double doors to the barn. A solitary sheep rushed out of the dark interior and, blinded by the sudden sunlight, careened helter-skelter full into Carter, tossing him to the ground. That was the ultimate indignity. He didn’t like people much, but animals, animals were less than nothing, and to be upended by a fucking sheep was more than he could stand. There was a packet taped to its back, and the goons chased it back into the barn, where they cornered it, allowing Carter to run up and kick it in the head. The animal gave a solitary bleat and fell
to its knees, stunned. The barn was empty.
Where was Amber? That was what Carter wanted to know. Of all the things that were happening, that was what bothered him the most. They looked around the empty barn, at a loss for what to do next. He turned to Simp. “What have they done to her?”
Simp was a patient man, up to a point, and now he’d had enough. “Boss, I don’t think they’ve done anything to her. Like I told you, it’s wrong. It feels wrong. I don’t like it. The truth is you’re wrong. Give them the money.”
Carter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was like some play he’d heard about, where the mates of some emperor or other had all turned around and stabbed him at once. “You’re saying she’s played me?” Simp shrugged apologetically, but Carter couldn’t take it. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. His lungs hurt. He rounded on Simp. “Wrong! Wrong! That’s all I ever hear from you and that daughter of mine. Wrong! I’m in fucking charge, do you get me? Me. That’s enough already. Right, wrong, what the fuck has it got to do with you?”
Simp was a big man, and suddenly, in the semidarkness of the barn, he loomed over Carter. He spoke quietly. “What’s it got to do with me? It’s got everything to do with me. It’s my bloody life. I’ve been thinking lately, and you know what? I’ve nearly had enough of this, boss. We’re getting older. I’ve been with you through everything, but…” Simp paused, collected himself. “But you carry on with this and we could be done now, do you get me?”
There was nothing more to say. Argument unresolved, the two went back to the car. There was no changing Carter.
Still convinced he could sort it for ten grand, Carter said, “Let’s go back to the village, see if we can find someone.”
As they pulled out of the yard, Simp punched in his favorite soul tape. “Me and Mrs. Jones” came on. Carter reached out to turn it off. Simp dropped a hand from the steering wheel and swiped him away. With no other recourse, Carter took out his flask and had a long drink.
Just before the turn into the village, they were forced to slow, thanks to a tractor that had been parked sideways across the lane, making it impassable. Carter’s head fell to his chest, and he muttered, “These fuckers think they’re clever, trying to spook us.”
“There’s a lot more of them than us,” Simp said cryptically, leaving Carter with that thought as he got out of the car and went back to the van. “Back up into the yard again, lads. We’ll turn around and you follow us.” Back in the car, he said, “Better pull yourself together, boss.”
Carter sighed and tried as best he could to take deep breaths.
Simp said, “Remember, if we follow this lane toward that bay and then keep going, we end up back at the ferry.”
Straightening his shoulders, Carter nodded.
By the time they came in sight of the ferry, Carter’d had a couple of shots. Maybe the pollen count was down, because the hay fever seemed to have abated, but maybe, anyway, it was just the ozone up his snozz had cleared it out. Regardless, when they got to the bay, Simp insisted they stop. Carter didn’t argue, because underneath it all, with him and Simp, some part of it was as deep as the love he felt for Amber, though he’d never tell. He didn’t know what he would do without him. Already, he’d readjusted everything Simp had said into the fact that he, Carter, shouldn’t fuck around with his music, and all right, he, Carter, could live with that.
Simp had got all the goons out and took them for a stroll on the beach. Even Carter went. It was strange and, if you liked nothing ever happening but a few clouds and sea and stuff, even Carter thought it was all right. Anyway, the boys seemed to like it, stupid big tossers. It perked them up. In fact, if he knew what Amber was about, and he got his dope back, everything would be perfick.
The two ferrymen were sat on the dock. As they turned onto the village’s main street, unable to help himself, Carter gave a nonchalant wave.
Outside the post office the road was blocked double deep by islanders. Not everybody was out—Henry Stick noticed Liz was absent—but there was a smattering of old blokes, the odd granny, a mess of hippies and proto-crusties (all dreads and post-punk bullshit), a pair of Mrs. Blue Raincoats, bug-eyed, dragged there by their slightly wayward teenage offspring. There were local guys with blackthorn sticks, blow-ins with mullets, and dogs on string, mothers and fathers with the kids in their arms and others strapped into strollers. On the front line was Julie, D.C., the vicar, Postmistress P, John Newman, Henry Stick, Si, Petal, PC Paloney in uniform, and, there in the middle, Amber holding hands with Dick. Beyond them all, a tractor and high-sided trailer blocked the street.
Carter and Simp sat in the car and looked. What was Amber doing, standing there with the carrot crunchers, and who in hell was the green-haired guy she was holding hands with? He looked like a dill. Then Tony and Dave walked past the car, smiled, waved, and went to join the crowd. Five hundred quid didn’t buy loyalty. Nothing bought loyalty.
Carter thought about his daughter and thought about Simp, and he remembered what he wanted and forgot the rest, and although Simp didn’t show it, he was exasperated. He said, calmly, “Look, boss, you can’t fight a whole island. Why don’t we just give them what they want? There’s still plenty of money to be made—remember, you don’t have to pay the Colombians.”
Sometimes that word was like a switch, and Carter could hardly contain himself: “Don’t talk money to me! What the fuck do you know? I’ll give them what they need all right, but it won’t be what they want!”
Confrontation was Carter’s favorite way to deal with the world. He stepped out of the car. He looked good and he knew it. It helped. Looking good could change the day. He tried a smile—it didn’t really work—but one brush down with the hands and the suit looked perfect: three buttons, slim lapels, hand stitched (naturally), eight-inch side vents, five-button cuffs, ticket pocket, timeless. All his suits were similar. He set his shoulders.
Reluctantly Simp followed and stood next to his boss. The four men in the van climbed out and stood alongside Carter and Simp. They each had a baseball bat. Carter straightened his slim tie at the knot and gave the onlookers a bit of a static shoulder swagger, just to let the people know who was boss. He took a good lungful of sweet, warm, oxygenated pollen. It tickled at the back of his throat.
As he stood there, Simp felt strange, uncomfortable, on the verge of something. If Carter set his mind to it, he could easily get what he wanted from most people with bribes, and if not, then he could go where others wouldn’t go, with violence. With Carter, it mostly went the latter way. That was the trouble, and that had been Carter and Simp at work for years. Trouble was Simp didn’t enjoy it anymore.
Carter reached in the car and pulled out a black cotton drawstring bag and threw it into the no-man’s-land between himself and the islanders. “Here, that’s ten grand, take it or leave it. I don’t want any trouble, I just want my product back.” He waved an arm at the gathered motley crew and said disparagingly, “You lot think you can stop me, but you’re just a bunch of fucking yokels and we’ll run straight through you.” By the time he’d finished speaking his voice had risen and his eyes were popping. A number of the villagers stepped back a pace and the four men with baseball bats stepped forward a pace.
Simp didn’t move but whispered in Carter’s ear, “I don’t want to do this. Anyway, there’s only the five of us.”
Breathing raggedly and red-faced now, Carter shook his head and sneered. “It ain’t about what you want to do!” He coughed. Something was wrong.
Leaving Dick’s hand behind, Amber stepped forward. Her dad didn’t look well; his face was tomato red. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, not right now, but he was still her dad. Amber knew, mostly, you couldn’t reason with him, but she tried anyway. “Daddy, you don’t have to do this, you don’t have to be like this. Almost everyone here knows now how much that cargo is worth. Ten grand ain’t going to work. Even if you pay them what they want, you can’t lose. These people are trying to save their homes and livelihoods.
Come on, Dad.”
Carter’s face itched. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Simp looked over at Amber and the rest of the islanders. Amber gave him a surreptitious little wave and smiled. Simp pulled a don’t-know face but, feeling moody, tried Carter again. “You know, boss, what Amber said is right, you’ll still make plenty of money.”
Carter turned on Simp. “I told you, it’s not up to you”—he threw out an arm and pointed toward his daughter—“or her. I ain’t a charity. Do you get me? There’s ten grand on the road there, you all can take it or leave it, but we don’t leave here without my product.”
Amber wanted to go to him, to hug and show him love, and she would have done it if, even in her wildest dreams, she thought it would make a difference. Instead, she took a backward step and picked up Dick’s hand.
Carter’s breath came heavy then and he started to sniff and sneeze, to cough and choke. In the hedgerow, the flower heads of the sukebind gently waved. Simp went to the car and took a strip of pills from the glove compartment. “Here. Antihistamine.” Carter was red-eyed, red-faced, beginning to bloat. He ripped a couple of tabs from the strip and threw them into his mouth. It had never been so bad. From across the divide, he heard the whisper: “Sukebind fever.” What the fuck was that? He punched two more tabs out and necked them.
Everybody, including the sukebind, watched fascinated as he crunched, swallowed, and almost choked again, as the pills caught in his throat. Simp slapped him on the back. Carter hated weakness and hated himself when it showed. He took out the flask and had a swallow. He breathed slow and long. It seemed the older he got, the more sensitive he became. When he had control, Carter said to Simp, “Let’s get in the vehicles and just drive straight through them.” Simp said nothing. The tractor and trailer were obvious. To the islanders, Carter said, “You stupid fuckers. We know exactly where it is. She may be standing with you, but she’s my daughter. Now get out of the fucking way or we’ll run you down.” He tried to laugh but stopped, as it bent in his throat into a cough.