Charlie Had His Chance

by Ellis Major

  Their captive fell momentarily silent when he caught sight of her in the dim interior light of the Horsebox, then pointed out what was already known to all but him. “Fuck me, it’s a woman.”

  Lady Boston’s handsome features knitted into a frown and she slapped him casually around the side of the head. Although he was a large and bulky man, the effect of the slap was quite spectacular; his head snapped to one side and his body crashed against the side of the Horsebox with such force the whole vehicle shook.

  “You will speak when you are spoken to and you will not swear in my presence,” Lady Boston told him. In his now rather dazed state, the captive seemed disinclined to argue and indeed flinched backwards when Lady Boston raised her finger to point at him.

  Lady Boston was an impressive figure, standing six foot five in her (seldom) stockinged feet and weighing in at a shade over twenty stone, a fact known only to her and her bathroom scales. She had won the all England ploughing contest for four years out of the last six, and controlled her two Suffolk Punches as if they were a couple of toy poodles. There were those who scurrilously whispered that she had no need of the horses and merely appended them for show, whilst she pushed the plough along herself. However, those who gave vent to such uncharitable thoughts kept their whispers very quiet indeed. Lady Boston was not a lady with whom one trifled, unless suicidal or congenitally stupid, the latter condition being more common in Essex than the former although rare in ploughing circles.

  “Angie,” Charlie called as he clambered gingerly into the Horsebox. “Got the Christian then.” He peered at the floor lest one or two noxious lumps might lie in his path.

  “And he is about to tell me one or two things.” Lady Boston kept her steely gaze fixed on the captive.

  “Am I fuck,” he grunted. This earned him a slightly harder slap.

  “Steady on, Angie,” Charlie cautioned, putting out a hand to steady himself. “You don’t want to bend the lorry. The horses wouldn’t recognise it.”

  “You can ‘it me all yer like. Yer gonna kill me anyway an’ I ‘ain’t no bleedin’ grass.”

  “Oh dear,” Lance remarked softly from the doorway, suggesting, with the gentlest motion of his eyes that Smethers and Jones might like to leave them in peace.

  “Now who are you?” He stared straight through the bound figure in from of him. On receiving no immediate reply he continued. “Who was the first Christian, Jesus wasn’t it? So, Jesus, let me tell you, there’s being killed and then there’s being killed by me.”

  Lance was speaking very softly but his voice oozed the promise of pain, pain inflicted at length and purely for the sake of torturing the victim. Charlie actually shuddered. He was scared at how the man sounded and Lance was on his side. He thought of Douglas Klarte. Perhaps Lance was modelling himself on Klarte in some way.

  Jesus stared at Lance. “’Oo the…” he began shakily, then paused as Lady Boston’s arm began to rise. “’Oo are you?”

  Lance leaned right into the face of Jesus and his eyes focussed for a moment. “I’m the bogeyman,” he whispered. “This is my time, in the dark, just you and me and the long, long hours.”

  “Never mind all that,” Lady Boston growled, producing a large hunting knife from one of the pockets in her waxed jacket. “You only get to touch him if I can’t get him to talk. That’s what we agreed.”

  “Please don’t tell her anything.” Lance really did sound genuinely insane. “I hate you people so much. Don’t talk to her. I want to crucify you, I really do. I’ve got a nail gun all ready.”

  “Now listen to me very carefully.” Lady Boston stepped in closer and lowered her voice. Even she was unnerved by Lance’s behaviour. “My mother tells me that should I be producing an heir in the near future and my husband is pretty damn useless in that department.”

  “Really Angie? Poor old Jimmy, that’s hard luck,” Charlie exclaimed. “Firing blanks is he?”

  “He’s quite pitiful,” Lady Boston confirmed. “Not only that. He’s like a champagne cork; shake him up and down a couple of times and he pops off straight away.”

  “Angie,” Charlie exclaimed, eyes widening in shock. “I don’t need to know.”

  “So with this one here,” Lady Boston continued remorselessly. “I might even have some fun, before I geld him.”

  A brief expression of horror crossed their captive’s face as Charlie gave a snort of disgust.

  “Angie, are you sure. You’ve no idea where he’s been.”

  “Yeah,” Jesus gasped desperately. “I’ve got AIDS.”

  “I will have to forgo the pleasure then, and move straight to the business.” She reached for the belt of his trousers.

  “You’re not going to talk to her are you,” Lance sighed with mad disappointment as Charlie started to shuffle nervously towards the doorway. “I want three days alone with you.”

  “Please gag him,” Charlie requested. “I really can’t watch, but even if I’m outside I don’t want his squeals to bring up my peanuts. My stomach’s quite delicate and they don’t taste so nice on the way back.”

  Curiously, it was Charlie’s genuine and unfeigned concern for his digestion that caused resistance to crumble – the hunting knife and Lance’s stare had softened Jesus up, of course.

  “Wot d'yer want?”

  “Next steps?” Lady Boston demanded.

  “I give ‘em a call, say I’m ‘ere.”

  “And?”

  “They drive dahn.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “Weapons? Think very carefully now, my good man.”

  “One gun each.”

  “Quite sure?”

  He nodded.

  Lance in the meanwhile had recovered the mobile phone from the prisoner’s pocket. Lance seemed deeply affronted.

  “And would it be the last number you called Jesus, an hour or so ago?” he muttered.

  He received a nod in response.

  “You have been so sensible that it would be such a shame to ruin your prospects through an ill-judged warning,” Lady Boston counselled the prisoner. “As far as your disciples are concerned, it would merely postpone the inevitable. We have ways of tracking phones.”

  Lance dialled and held the phone up so that the prisoner could speak.

  The phone call was brief and to the point.

  “Wise choice,” Lady Boston told him, stowing her knife away. “And if they fail to appear within two hours I shall hold you responsible.” She stomped off.

  “Now, Jesus...” Lance began.

  “For fuck’s sake, it’s George.”

  “Better give you something to eat and drink. You’re going to need your strength to fight the lions.”

  “Bread and water, Lance,” Charlie quipped. “Let’s see if he can do anything fancy with the water.”

  George stared at Lance as Charlie chuckled to himself. “Oh God,” muttered George. “God help me.”

  “Wrong number, shithead,” Lance responded, reaching into his bag. “He’s engaged.”

  It was under Lady Boston’s two hour deadline when the remainder of the flock arrived. Jonny had taken charge of the next stage of the operation, and had planned the ambush carefully. A trussed and bound St. George, as Charlie had named him, was laid across the road at a point where the hedges closed in on the edges of the lane. The bush-wackers, excluding Charlie, who was, again, warned to keep well back, were placed in the hedge at various points.

  From the moment they heard the soft diesel rattle of an approaching vehicle, it was all over with shocking speed. The bulky off-roader braked sharply and stopped when the driver caught sight of the shape in the road. Then both the driver and the front seat passenger jumped out, just as Roddy and Geoff jammed the makeshift barrier in behind the back wheels to prevent its reversing.

  Jonny was so contemptuous of the driver’s stupidity in leaving the vehicle unattended that he even snapped ‘Bloody amateurs’ as he knocked the driver unconscious with a sharp b
low from his automatic. Moving swiftly on he then leant into the car to stick the same weapon into the face of the rear offside passenger. In the meantime, Lance had dealt with the front seat passenger and Smethers with final member of the party in the rear. Lady Boston collected the weapons from those two new arrivals who’d been permitted to remain conscious, before doing the same for the pair who were now dead to the world on the tarmac. One of the rear passengers was foolhardy enough to offer some resistance and had several fingers fractured in the grip of one of Lady Boston’s paws. The cracking sound was distinctly audible and it was as well, for the sake of his stomach, that Charlie was out of earshot.

  The barrier was removed from behind the car and discarded. The conscious captives were removed from the car and the unconscious ones thrown in, together with St George. Jonny then drove the vehicle swiftly down to park it next to the Horsebox. By the time all those on foot, including the conscious prisoners, caught up with him he had moved St George together with the other two, into the horsebox and was in the process of chaining up the lot of them.

  Prisoners secured, Lady Boston ran through the final arrangements. “Geoffrey will assist Jonny with guard duty in the lorry.”

  “Wilko,” breathed Geoff.

  “Roderick will take their vehicle and hide those lifejackets before we go too far.”

  “Understood,” Roddy confirmed.

  “We will drop off Smethers and Jones then go to the stables. We’ll conceal these creatures in the lorry with however many bales it takes and then drive north. I will drive the horsebox. We will travel well apart and communicate only via the radios. All clear?”

  There were nods and affirmative noises, apart from Charlie.

  “Angie, aren’t we forgetting something?”

  Lady Boston stiffened slightly. “Charlie, I can’t imagine...”

  “It came to me a moment ago. Phones. We need to take them all to bits. Can’t have anyone being traced, especially the Christians.”

  Lady Boston slapped her forehead, quite a scary sound, like an Ent on Speed.

  “Charlie, good thinking! You might well have saved the day! I owe you a big favour. I wouldn’t want my horsebox pulled over with this lot in it. Smethers, cut along will you and take care of it. We’ll all do our own, eh.”

  Charlie was relieved to have made some contribution. “Well at least I wasn’t a complete waste of space,” he muttered. “You can buy me lunch some time, Angie.”

  “Charlie, you’re on!” There was a flash of teeth in the darkness as Lady Boston rewarded him with a smile. “But I daresay you need a rest after all that effort, so what say Lance tucks you up in the Bentley and you make a start. Roddy, make sure you don’t go near the horsebox with that muck of yours. If there are any traces of it, they might be detected and I’ll end up being disqualified or worse from the next contest. I will be most un-amused if that happens on top of all the time I’ve spent.”

  Roddy hefted the offending articles. “Yes Angie,” he answered obediently. “Whatever you say.”

  Chapter 3 - Kirkness (Year 1 – July)

  Late in the afternoon of that same day, the three disparate vehicles had formed themselves into something of a convoy as they reached the estates of the Duke of Kirkness. A Bentley, a horsebox and a pricey off-roader made an unusual procession but there were very few spectators – sheep, cattle and birds excepted.

  Lance had temporarily lost radio contact during the course of the journey, after Charlie insisted on stopping off at a hotel en route for three hours, once he woke up at around 1pm. He needed to take a leisurely lunch and ‘freshen up’.

  “No, Lance,” he explained patiently in the face of Lance’s mildly amused protest. “I’ve never met the Duke, and the Tiptree family honour would be irreparably besmirched if I rock up looking like a scarecrow, particularly at the bothy of one of these prickly kilt-wearing types north of the border. You know what they’re like.”

  Lance wasn’t unduly fussed. He knew the way and they weren’t carrying a bundle of trussed up drug dealers or cocaine dressed up in lifebelts. He even took a nap himself. Break over though, Lance was obliged to test Kali’s capacity for unleashing great power on the world. He’d brought some black tape along and spent part of the time Charlie was sprucing himself up in altering the number plates to annoy the Police when they came to check their speed cameras.

  It is gratifying to report that the driving experience was satisfactory, and mildly exhilarating. The goddess was most grateful to be allowed her head and Lance felt she’d smiled on him. Their combined efforts resulted in Kali leading the little procession onto the interminable drive of the Duke’s castle.

  “Your aunt must have had the engine management system re-programmed,” he told Charlie. “She goes like a sodding rocket.”

  Charlie smiled. “Aunty was mad for speed,” he said. “So the old girl probably did get things tweaked a bit. Even then, the Bentley was always called the barge. She used to race in some tiny little fibreglass red thing, a Caterham I think it was. That’s how she died - got involved in a big pile up, a wheel came off some other car, bounced in and snapped her neck like a twig. Almost impossible but the impossible sometimes happens.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Fifty something.”

  “Your family are a bit accident prone, Charlie; an aunt, your parents.”

  “Perhaps I got all the good luck,” Charlie replied. “You never know.”

  “You got the money, anyway, so that’s a start. Now, if I’m right, it’s around the edge of this hill.”

  “Bloody hell, Lance,” Charlie cried as the castle hove into view. “That is quite a pile.”

  The Duke bounded out to greet them, followed, at a more leisurely pace, by his lovely wife. The Duke was tall, dark haired and very distinguished.

  “Lance, it’s been a long time,” he called, as Lance opened the rear door of the Bentley. “You don’t look a day older.”

  Lance inclined his head. “Lying bastard,” he replied, cordially.

  “Mr Tiptree,” I take it, the Duke continued, seizing Charlie’s hand. “Your reputation precedes you to some extent. Lance spoke to me of you and we may have a couple of acquaintance in common.”

  On hearing his words, Charlie cast a cautious glance at the Duke but perked up on concluding that his host’s expression was benign.

  “Good of you to lay on such amazing weather,” he congratulated the Duke, admiring the azure sky and the odd white puffball of cloud over the long and picturesque valley the convoy had occupied some time ascending. “Secluded too,” he continued. “I gather your estate includes all the bits that aren’t blue or white – good for sporting events.”

  The Duke twinkled back at him. “Oh yes indeed. Now let me introduce Cora.” He turned to his wife, who was already holding out her hand. “I must greet my other guests. Lady Boston, I gather is …”

  He broke off as the self-same emerged from the cab of her Horsebox. He leant over to Charlie. “Good grief, is that her?”

  “It is, Your Grace,” Lance murmured and the Duke rushed off with an aristocratic grunt of awe.

  Charlie was goggling at Cora, Duchess of Kirkness. He was completely smitten. “Well aren’t you wonderful,” was all he could manage. Black curls surrounded a face of doll-like prettiness with piercing blue eyes.

  The Duke and Duchess were Scottish to the bone and so, therefore, the product of the finest English education that money could buy. They were completely unstuffy, and all who met her loved Cora on sight. She giggled at Charlie’s words, ensuring that he joined her nigh on innumerable fan club.

  “I’ve heard tell that you are a bit of a laugh, Charlie.” Her voice was light and mischievous.

  Charlie started to babble a bit. “My middle name is nonsense and I live to entertain,” he declared.

  Cora raised her eyebrows. “Charlie that sounds like fun.” She broke off to beckon at some staff as her husband approached once more.

  “Cor
a, my dear, if you will be so good as to deal with the house logistics for our guests? I’ll take care of the hospitality arrangements for our other visitors. I gather everyone would value a nap before dinner.”

  He rushed off again to supervise some very tough looking individuals, all of whom were clad in kilts with dirks and sporrans and all manner of heavy tweed jackets. They were starting to clear the bales of straw from the back of the horsebox.

  “I’m not tired at all,” Charlie reassured Cora. “I managed to squeeze in forty whilst Lance was burning rubber.”

  “Then, Charlie,” Cora exclaimed. “We shall have tea whilst the others rest and I can test your ability to entertain. Now don’t run off or the cat might savage you. I must circulate and greet.”

  As Cora and her guests entered the castle Lance fell back and took the opportunity to exchange a few quiet words with the Estate Manager.

  Her duties as hostess complete, Cora took Charlie into the impressively huge drawing room complete with colossal fireplace and endless family portraits. Charlie was duly impressed by the air of boundless tradition all about him but also spotted and admired the grand piano. Predictably, perhaps, he was, after a splendidly reviving Scottish tea, prevailed upon to bash out a few tunes. The Duchess, who sat placidly stroking her favourite Persian cat, and the Duke who joined them later, were quite charmed.

  The Duke explained, as Charlie took a break, and was encouraged to re-energise himself with a huge slab of Dundee cake, that, as the paying guests’ private jet had been slightly delayed by turbulence over the Atlantic, dinner would, in all probability, be delayed by an hour or so.

  “They’ll be all the livelier for the rest,” Charlie declared, taking his seat at the piano once more. “Now I’ve been forcing my taste on you. How about some requests?”

  “I do,” Cora murmured to the Duke. “Take to him. I can see why Lance should report so favourably.”

  “Yes,” said the Duke, sagely. “Bit lightweight but his heart’s in the right place. Good sort of chap overall.”