The Chaplin Conspiracy

by Stewart Ferris

  ‘Shall we break through anyway, since we’re so close and you’ve already paid off that old woman?’ Justina asked. ‘There might be something in there that they didn’t think was valuable.’

  ‘Get me a sledge hammer, Charlie,’ said Rocco. ‘Let’s make it quick.’

  Charlie returned to the camper van again. As he rummaged in his tool bag for the heaviest hammer he could find, a voice spoke to him from one of the front seats.

  ‘Sit down, Charlie.’

  He looked up. Winnifred was sat in the van’s passenger seat and held in her hand the Templar sword that he had pilfered earlier in the day.

  ‘Hey,’ said Charlie. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘We’re going to have a little talk, just you and me,’ she told him.

  ‘Awesome,’ he replied. ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘You see, I don’t appreciate what you did to me back in the church. That thing with the sword. I found it humiliating. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Sorry?’ suggested Charlie, not really sure what she wanted from him.

  ‘Why would you do something like that to me?’

  ‘Er, because you were threatening to stab me with your knife?’

  ‘You judged me because of how I look and how I speak. That’s called prejudice, and that’s a bad thing. You assumed I was a bad person just because I held out a knife and maybe threatened to kill you. Story of my life. People always say I’m a bad person. I’m not, though. I’m a person. You’re a person. We’re people. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, shaking his head.

  ‘OK, so maybe I’ve killed a few people now and then. Who hasn’t? Does that make me a bad person? Hell no. I’m a person who has done some bad things, that’s all.’

  ‘Donut?’ asked Charlie, helping himself to sustenance.

  ‘Huh? I gotta watch my figure at my time of life. So, Charlie, I want you to know that I forgive you. You humiliated me, but I will let it go. But you owe me, OK? You need to do something for me to make it right. Because I’m a fair person and you need to restore the balance of justice between us.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie. ‘Can I get you a coffee perhaps?’

  ‘A little more than that, actually. You’re going to do exactly as I say. No more, no less. And I know you’ll do it because you’re a fair person. I also know you’ll do it because if you don’t then the next encounter with my knife will be so fast that you won’t know what’s hit you. So you’re not going to tell Justina or that German guy anything about this chat. I will never be far away. I will be watching you. And this is what you are going to do for me.’

  Charlie munched quietly while she delivered her instructions to him.

  ***

  Ratty was shivering with cold. Ruby was boiling with fury. The Patient was chilled to the bone and Scabies maintained his body temperature by smoking roll-ups. They all had soggy backsides from waves that splashed over the tubes of the inflatable tender upon which they were precariously seated. They were also lost. Fuel in the noisy little outboard motor was low. If they didn’t find somewhere to beach this boat soon they would end up having to use the oars, and no one was in the mood for that kind of effort.

  ‘We should have stayed on the luxury yacht,’ complained Ruby. ‘The helicopter has gone.’

  ‘We would have needed something we did not possess at that time in order to have remained on that vessel,’ replied the Patient.

  ‘Guns?’ asked Scabies.

  ‘Gin?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘Hindsight,’ replied the Patient, steering the tender into the calmer waters of Portsmouth Harbour. ‘Lacking that, we made the right call.’

  ‘Mmm,’ grumbled Ruby in clear disagreement. ‘Let’s just get ashore before we all get hypothermia, find a place that will serve us hot drinks, and only then, when we’ve all got clear heads for thinking, will we decide where we go from here.’

  ‘I concur most heartily,’ said Ratty.

  ‘I believe I know of the perfect location for hot refreshments,’ said the Patient, turning the dinghy towards the commercial docks.

  ‘Watch out for those enormous ferries,’ said Ruby, looking up at a vast ship tied to the dock, effortlessly ingesting cars and lorries in preparation for its next cross-channel voyage. ‘We’ve got no lights. If they start to move they’ll never see us in the dark.’

  The tender bumped against the side of the ferry and the Patient navigated towards the rear of the vessel where the loading was taking place.

  ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ said Scabies. ‘The whole port is a secure area.’

  ‘That is true,’ whispered the Patient, cutting the engine as they drifted closer to the car ramp. ‘Everyone boarding this ship has already had their passports and travel documents checked. If we can get ashore here without attracting attention we may be able to board this ship as foot passengers.’

  ‘Like hitch hiking on a ferry?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘Yes, but without the knowledge of the captain, obviously. See the concrete piles supporting the dock?’ the Patient asked, pointing ahead at the dark vertical shapes protruding from the water behind the ship. ‘I will row silently to them. We will climb up and walk onto the ship. We will do so with confidence and serenity. Agreed?’

  No one agreed, but in the absence of competing ideas no one had the motivation to disagree. A steel ladder, slimy and encrusted with barnacles on its lower rungs, led the way from the water up to the dock. They climbed up and walked calmly towards the ferry alongside the line of cars headed in the same direction.

  A woman in a high-visibility jacket spotted them first. ‘Excuse me!’ she shouted, halting the cars and running over to the four pedestrians. ‘You should be over that side. See those steps?’ She pointed at a mobile staircase that led high up to the side of the ship. A sign above the stairs said ‘Foot Passengers’.

  ‘I must apologise most sincerely for our inconvenient befuddlement,’ said Ratty, striding past the frustrated car drivers towards the stairs. Scabies, Ruby and the Patient followed without a word and the woman in the yellow jacket thought no more of it as she instructed the car drivers to resume loading.

  ‘We should all keep a low profile throughout the crossing,’ whispered Ruby as they climbed the stairs to the accommodation deck. ‘Don’t go around reminding people you’re a rock star, Rat. The Patient – don’t get into convoluted philosophical arguments with the cleaners or the caterers. Ratty – just stick close to me and keep your mouth shut. We’ve got until six tomorrow morning to work out how we’re going to get into France without documentation.’

  ‘Wake me up with a cup of tea at five-thirty, if it’s not too much trouble,’ said Ratty, settling into the first reclining seat he found on board. ‘Good luck with the planning and wotnot.’

  ***

  ‘What made you want to solve the Saunière mystery?’ asked Rocco, trying to pass the time during Charlie’s surprisingly lengthy absence.

  ‘It’s who I am,’ Justina replied.

  ‘You’re someone who feels the need to investigate and explore and discover?’

  ‘No, I mean I’ve traced my family tree back to France in the 1890s. I have a close family connection with this village. That’s why I wanted to come here.’

  ‘Really? Are you related to one of the local families from back then?’

  ‘Definitely,’ she replied, with a glint in her eye.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Rocco, decoding the look in an instant.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Precisely.’

  He pondered the significance of this revelation before saying, ‘So you’re not hunting for treasure, are you? You’re looking for your inheritance!’

  The door burst open and Charlie squeezed in dragging his sledge hammer behind him.

  ‘Let’s do this!’ said Rocco, positioning himself back over the hole. ‘When I get down and give you the signal, lower the hammer on a rope, Charlie. Don’t drop it.’

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t you want to know what took me so long?’

  ‘Not really, Charlie,’ Rocco replied. ‘Maybe later. I want to see in that crypt and then get out of here.’

  ‘You too, Justina? Not interested?’

  She shook her head.

  Charlie shrugged and got to work, lowering first Rocco and then the mighty tool that would easily destroy the bricks in the tunnel. It took only ten impacts against the wall before Rocco announced the creation of a hole into which he could put his camera phone.

  ‘Pull me up and we can look at the footage on the phone,’ he instructed. ‘It’s too dusty down here.’

  Rocco climbed out once again, his shoulders now starting to feel sore from the repeated scrapes and bumps against the rocky sides of the hole.

  He held out his phone and the others huddled close to view the video file of the most ancient crypt in the village.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rocco.

  ‘Shit,’ said Justina.

  ‘You guys should ask for a refund,’ said Charlie.

  SUNDAY 12TH MAY 2013

  Ratty had been woken at 5 a.m. by the ship’s distorted, multilingual pronouncements that breakfast was being served. He had staggered blearily to the restaurant where he was dismayed to discover that not only was there no maître d’ to impress with his aristocratic title – which would both have negated the need to book in advance and guaranteed the best table – but also that it was a self-service ordeal with a queue that snaked right along the corridor. He therefore found himself sunk to new and unfamiliar culinary depths; he was standing in front of a drinks machine attempting to instruct it to make him a drinkable cup of tea.

  His first effort resulted in a puddle of warm, grey water in a foam cup. It certainly wasn’t part of the tea family. It didn’t even appear to be a distant cousin of a proper morning brew. He inserted another coin and tried again, pressing different buttons on the mysteriously uncooperative device. A cup dropped down and fell on its side before clear hot water splashed all over it and onto the floor.

  ‘What happened to you, mate?’ asked Scabies, coming up behind him nibbling a cheese-filled croissant. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘The concept of tea doesn’t appear to have reached the nautical community,’ Ratty moaned.

  ‘They’ll make you one in the kitchens. Come with me.’ Scabies led the way through a door marked ‘Staff Only’. The decor changed instantly. Gone were the carpets and wood trimmings and comfortable seats dotted around. This was the utilitarian part of the ship: hard-wearing and easy to clean. Scabies opened a second door and ushered Ratty into the kitchens.

  ‘There you are,’ said Ruby, through a mouthful of egg. She was standing against the wall, chomping her way through a plate filled with delectable-looking food. ‘We’ve found our way out of here. The catering staff will lend us some uniforms, and we walk into France with them. No questions asked.’

  ‘Golly,’ said Ratty. ‘Why would they do such a fine and noble thing?’

  ‘They hate their employers,’ Scabies answered. ‘They’re thinking of going on strike tomorrow. Any little thing they can do to piss off the ferry company – like letting us hitch a ride – is all right with them.’

  ‘Why do I have a sense of déjà-vu, if you’ll pardon my French?’ asked Ratty. The Patient nodded. ‘You feel it too?’

  ‘It is a most peculiar universe that we inhabit,’ the Patient replied. ‘Connections and coincidences and causes and effects coil around each other like the strands of DNA from which we are built.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ said Ratty, wondering when he was going to get his cup of tea. ‘Rather a weighty concept for such an uncivilised hour.’

  ‘And if you are aware of the same coincidences that I have begun to notice,’ continued the Patient, ‘and if the universe dictates that our fate is set to continue in that line, no matter how unlikely, then our plan to exit the ship with the catering crew must fail.’

  ‘So do you think we’ll be captured and taken to the captain and forced to listen to his poetry before he throws us into the sea?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘What are you two on about?’ chipped in Ruby.

  ‘Patient chappy and yours truthfully have identified a disturbing chain of coincidences. It seems that our experiences of the past two days have run unnervingly parallel to a story with which we are both familiar. Either the universe is playing tricks on us or someone is manipulating our lives.’

  ‘You’re sounding as paranoid as that idiot, Rocco,’ said Ruby. ‘He’s always convinced there’s a conspiracy out to get him.’

  ‘Then there probably is,’ added Scabies. ‘So what makes you think you’re being manipulated?’ he asked Ratty.

  ‘Every grisly and grotesque thing. The letter from the council saying they would prefer a ribbon of steaming fresh concrete in place of my home, then it gets partly destroyed anyway; hitch hiking on a ship courtesy of the catering crew; and most damning and toe-curlingly spooky of all, I failed to obtain a satisfactory cup of tea from a machine which, let’s be honest, is designed to do that and only that. It’s not as if it also has to peel spuds, or direct a production of Macbeth, or dance the foxtrot. It is there purely to make tea. And it has failed utterly in that one task for which it was created. The mind boggles.’

  ‘Right,’ sighed Ruby. ‘I think you may be straying from the point somewhat. And if all those events refer to what I think they do, then you’ve missed a vital element in the chain of similarities.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘My revelation that I didn’t come from Guildford after all.’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ said Scabies.

  ‘These events are all from the plot of a radio series which became a novel and then a television series and then a film,’ said Ruby. ‘Ratty thinks someone is manipulating his life to follow the plot of The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Scabies. ‘I guess he’s right, now that you mention it. That would be some conspiracy! But how can someone manipulate us like that?’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘It’s laughable, isn’t it?’

  ‘But even if it were possible,’ said the Patient, ‘a more pertinent question is not how, but why? Are the gods playing with us for their sport? Is it for the idle amusement of someone who has influence and money and time and nothing better to do?’

  ‘Or,’ said Ruby in her sternest tone, ‘maybe it’s a coincidence that carries no meaning whatsoever and we should get on with the challenges that we already face without inventing new ones.’

  ‘Or,’ continued the Patient, with utter disregard for her scepticism, ‘it is a combination of external manipulation and internal coincidence. The revelation of Ruby’s town of origin cannot have been influenced by an outsider and we must therefore discount it. I believe the tea machine incident is in the same category, but the letter from the council concerning the destruction of Stiperstones to build a bypass could have been from the hand of someone with an agenda. Our present need to travel without documentation is perhaps an extension of that agenda, leading us effectively to hitch hike with the strike-prone French equivalent of Dentrassi cooks. The hand of influence becomes more distant, less direct, with every passing hour, and that means the subsequent events are more explicable by coincidence than by conspiracy.’

  ‘And that means there’s nothing more to worry about?’ asked Scabies.

  At that moment the ship’s loudspeaker system beeped and a voice crackled through the greasy speakers.

  ‘This is your captain speaking. We will be arriving in Cherbourg in thirty minutes. It has also been brought to my attention that we may have some stowaways on board. I advise you to hand yourselves in to the nearest crew member or face the consequences.’

  ‘See? Coincidence. And not even a very good one, because he didn’t say anything about reading his poems to us,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Or his announcement was a carefully planned move that will be followed by our capture, en
forced exposure to diabolical poetry and expulsion into the sea,’ said Ratty.

  One of the chefs approached them carrying spare sets of clothing and hats. He distributed them amongst the stowaways.

  ‘Will you all please stop being paranoid about what’s happening?’ asked Ruby, stepping into a baggy pair of white trousers. ‘Just get these things on and pretend to be French until we’re safe.’

  ‘I appreciate that we’re in something of a how-do-you-do,’ said Ratty, ‘and under these exceptional circumstances I don’t mind taking a yacht without the owner’s permission or travelling on a ferry without a ticket, but pretend to be French? I really don’t think there’s any need to descend quite so far.’

  ‘Shush, Ratty. Put your hat on and get in line with the locals, and don’t open your mouth until we’re ashore.’

  ‘Oh the inhumanity,’ mumbled Ratty, feeling ridiculous in an outfit that made him look like a servant.

  ‘And if we get ashore and our next means of transport turns out not to be a stolen limousine driven by a two-headed ex-boyfriend of mine who has become President of France, I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense about someone manipulating our lives according to a Douglas Adams story.’

  Ratty nodded, grabbed a string of onions from a vegetable box and dangled them around his neck.

  ***

  The campsite clung to an extended night. Steep hills on either side of the valley ensured a late dawn and an early dusk. Rocco woke up to the unnerving sound of Charlie’s snoring. He threw a pillow at Charlie’s bunk and the tremors ceased. A gargling yawn announced the awakening of Rocco’s host.

  ‘Was I snoring, man?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘No,’ Rocco replied. ‘I think it was just a minor earthquake.’

  ‘We should get up. If you stay in the van too long it gets real hotsville Idaho.’ Charlie looked outside, wondering if Justina had gone. The wobbly tent that he had rapidly erected for her in the dark still stood tall, if not proud. Whether she was inside it, though, was less certain.

  ‘Any sign of our guest?’ asked Rocco.

  Charlie rubbed his puffy eyes and looked more closely. The tent door was open. ‘Guess she decided not to stick around,’ he said.