And De Fun Don't Done (68 page)

‘Follow us down to the manse, Les. It's not very far.'

‘Yeah, righto Lewis,' smiled Les, as best he could.

Les started the engine and with the locals watching curiously the little procession wound down the backstreets of Dredmouth into Holding Street and along the waterfront. On the way half an idea formed in Norton's shifty red head, he was working on the other half when they pulled up next to the cobblestones and wooden columns in front of the manse. Les got out of the car and Lewis introduced him to the two cops. Their names were Coyne and Moylan and Les couldn't remember ever getting two lousier handshakes or filthier looks in his life. Coyne was a little taller than Moylan. Les smiled a syrupy smile, thinking if looks could kill he'd spend the rest of his Jamaican holiday planted with the rest of them out the front of Rose Hill Great House; starting this afternoon. He was also thinking he'd better put his plan into action and smartly as he didn't have all bloody day either.

‘Alright, gentlemen,' he said, holding the crowbar and handing the two cops the rest of the tools, ‘we'll have to go round the back. Professor Eyres is in Antigua at the moment and I don't have the key. Just follow me,' he smiled, receiving another two filthy looks for his trouble.

‘Come on, has'e up,' ordered Lewis. ‘And no fiesty either. Show de mon some respec.'

Les turned to Lewis and smiled. ‘This is so good of you, Lewis. I honestly don't know how to show my appreciation.'

‘My pleasure, Les. No problem at all, suh.'

They trooped round the corner, down the side then through the gap in the wall into the backyard; Les stopped near the back door and waited for them, all
smiles. Inspector Noonan was okay, all pumped up with his own importance at being able to display some authority. The two young cops were screaming. They'd probably both been sitting on their arses in the station out of the heat, now they were going to spend the rest of the day shovelling shit in an old ruined building for nothing and being ordered around by some stinken, white bastard as well. Les nodded for them to follow him through. Norton walked straight into the main ballroom, dropped his backpack against the wall and took out his notebook and biro. With a look of rapture and reverence on his face Norton gazed around the inside of the manse and went into this pious spiel about how absolutely marvellous the old building was and how enlightening it would be to be able to restore the manse to its original splendour and do something fitting for the Jamaican people. Lewis beamed while the two young cops leant against their tools and sulked. You know, thought Les, I might even be able to have a bit fun with these two palookas. They're both at my disposal. Okay boys, let's see how you like a bit of honest toil in the name of the Lord. And just hope Eduardo hasn't left one of his whips lying around or you'll get it right across your black arses.

‘Okay,' Les said to Coyne, holding the broom, ‘if you'd like to sweep up in here, around these columns and along the walls. Then push all the rubbish in the corner near the door and we'll take it out later.' Coyne snarled something under his breath and removed his cap as Les turned to Moylan. ‘Now, what I had in mind was this…' Les led Moylan out near the kitchen where all the muddy, water sodden books were slowly pulping themselves on the floor. ‘If you'd like to shovel those into that corner, that would be great. I'll be along to help you shortly.' Moylan removed his cap and gave Norton a look even more diabolical than his mate.

‘Ire,' snapped Inspector Noonan. ‘You heard de mon. Mik movin'.'

‘Absolutely marvellous,'beamed Norton. ‘Now, Lewis. Tell me a bit about yourself while I take some notes.'

Les loaded his camera and walked Lewis round the bottom floor of the manse while he took photos, wrote meaningless scrawls in his notebook and talked about absolutely nothing. Nothing Les was interested in anyway. Lewis waffled on about how long he'd been in the force, his family and what a good turn the ball should be on the weekend. Les said he couldn't wait to be there with his friends and he was going to have at least one dance with Lewis's wife. Les was also ringing Kingston and Australia the following morning and he'd make sure he mentioned Inspector Noonan and the trouble he'd gone to for him. Lewis beamed like a lighthouse as Norton continued to piss in his pocket. Behind them, Coyne and Moylan were toiling away, getting shit all over them and getting more sour by the minute. Les and Inspector Noonan wandered out into the backyard, Les got the fat cop to strike an authoritative pose near the back door and took his photo then they wandered back inside again with Les still making notes.

‘You know, Lewis,' Norton said sincerely, ‘I don't think it's going to take as much as we thought to restore this building.'

‘It won't?'

Les shook his head. ‘No. We budgeted for half a million dollars. My family's putting up one half, the other half comes from the Australian government.' Les looked at his notebook again. ‘We'll get out of it for a lot less than that.'

Noonan's eyes lit up at the phone number Les was tossing around. ‘You will?'

‘Easy. And you've been such a help and so friendly, Lewis, I don't know why we wouldn't be able to do something for your people. Could the Sommersby Police Sports Club do with a little help in some way?'

Noonan started to fluster. He'd stumbled across a walking, talking Australian pot of gold. ‘Well. If you…'

‘Excellent,' smiled Les. ‘We might even organise it all through you.'

‘I can assure you, Les, I'm the right man for the job there.'

‘Do you think I ever doubted that for a minute, Lewis? In the meantime,' Norton draped an arm over Lewis's shoulder and went into Arthur Daley spiel about warp nine, ‘I know what a busy man you are Lewis. With the ball coming up and all that. Plus the police station's running a couple of men short. You may as well go on about your business. I can organise things here.'

This pretty much suited Inspector Noonan. He could get back on the road, hustling motorists and putting half the money in his kick. ‘Okay, Les. But only if you're sure.'

Norton removed his arm, made a magnanimous gesture and, out of sight from the other two cops, pulled a fifty from his wallet and offered it to the inspector. ‘Take this, Lewis. Share it around up the station or whatever. With the Australian government's thanks. And mine too.'

Lewis tipped his cap again. ‘Thank you, Les. I shall see that it goes to the right place.' Like my false bank account over at Ocho Rios.

‘I'm sure you will, Lewis. Now, come on, mate, I'll walk you out to your car.'

Inspector Noonan gave Coyne and Moylan a goodbye blast as he was leaving, then let Norton piss in his pocket some more all the way out to the battered Toyota. Les shook his hand as Lewis got behind the wheel, thanked him profusely again and said if he didn't see him tomorrow he'd be in touch by the weekend. See you, Lewis. Thanks again. Les waved the inspector off up Holding Street, watched the little car disappear out of sight then walked back round the corner.

Coyne and Moylan were barely going through the motions as Les walked inside and Les was certain he could still detect the echo of obscenities hanging in the air as he entered the main ballroom. They picked up the pace slightly at the sight of the white bastard. Les gave them a thin smile each, went to his backpack, took out a carton of orange juice and drank it in front of them.

‘You're doing a good job,' he said. ‘Keep it up.'

Apart from two more sour looks there was no reply.
Les glanced at his watch, finished his orange juice and went upstairs.

From the top floor Les looked out over Dredmouth Harbour. It was still cloudy and crushingly humid, a couple of large brown birds hung in the air and a slight breeze drifted in from the bay, on which Les could smell the ocean and seaweed drying on the beach. He thought about a couple of things then started walking across the floorboards and beams, watching for gaps and loose nails. The ceiling was in a lot worse condition than Les had first thought. A lot of the floor was on the way out, and even though the beams supporting it were huge slabs of some local hardwood, they couldn't be expected to last forever. Not with most of the roof missing and rain constantly pouring in rotting them, then the sun streaming in and warping what was left when the rain stopped. Les walked slowly around some more. Through the gaps and the broken floorboards Les could see Coyne shuffling around below with the broken yard broom. Even doing very little he'd still managed to bring the marble tiles up in one area and Les could see just how opulent the old building must have been in its day. He could just picture Father Eduardo and hundreds of people whirling and dancing away while slaves in breeches and powdered wigs walked around with trays full of champagne or punch. Les could just picture it. But that wasn't what he was there for. He had one last look around then went back downstairs.

Moylan was still shovelling away at the books near the kitchen. Les called for him then nodded for him to follow him into the ballroom where he called Coyne over. They dropped their tools and sullenly walked across to Les standing at the kitchen door.

‘Listen, you two wombats,' said Les. ‘You're both about as much use as tits on a bull. You may as well hit the toe.' The two young cops looked at each other, then back at Les. Yeah, you pair of monkeys, thought Les. You're alright with your bloody patois. But you're not so good when it comes to a bit of good old, north corner,
Jack Lang, are you? ‘Go on, stall, you pair of dropkicks. Do a Harold. Before I give you a size ten St Louis right up both your abo khybers.' The two cops blinked at Norton as if he was from another planet. Les smiled another syrupy smile. ‘Moylan. Coyne,' he said. ‘This is no job for two fine young officers like you. Go. You can leave. With my blessing.' This got a response. ‘And before you go, tch-tch-tch! Look at the state of your uniforms. Here, take this for dry cleaning. And don't tell Inspector Noonan.' Les handed Coyne $10 US. This got a response too. Les couldn't tell if it was gratitude or contempt. But they didn't need to be told twice. They picked up their caps and Les walked them out to the gap in the wall, where he shook their hands again and thanked them just to sweeten the pot some more; the handshakes were no better but at least the looks this time weren't so bad. Les watched them vanish around the corner into Holding Street and breathed a sigh of relief.

Les had a look around then walked over to the old fruit tree in the middle of the backyard. It reminded him of the one up at Sweet Ginger Hill and he thought of the happy snap of him and Joshua standing next to it and the sundial. For some reason Les suddenly felt himself badly in need of a leak; he didn't think anybody would mind if he piddled up against the tree. Why he wanted to piss against the old tree, Les didn't know. He just did. When he finished, Les stared absently up at the yellow fruit for a moment then slowly nodded his head. Righto. Let's go treasure hunting. Les turned around and walked straight into the great hall of the manse.

Maybe it had been the presence of the police, maybe it was the shadows playing tricks in the muted light, but suddenly it seemed quite eerie standing alone in the huge old room. Thick shafts of hazy sunshine were slicing down from the gaps in the ceiling, and the four massive wooden columns seemed even more prominent now where Coyne had swept around their sandstone bases, casting vague, slightly intimidating shadows across the marble-tiled floor and the aquamarine walls. It was very
seventeenth century. Les checked his watch then went to his backpack and took out his book of Elizabeth Norton Blackmore's poems. He opened it and flicked to the one Millwood had read to him in the bar the previous night. Arguably her most famous poem.

‘Well, Betty baby,' he said out loud, ‘I haven't read any poetry since I left school. But seeing as there's no one around — I hope — I might have a go. Now, what's it say here?' Les looked at the book again. ‘“How do I love thee? Let me count four ways.'”

Still holding the book of poems, Les walked over and stood directly in front of the four brown mahogany columns where they ran along the huge ballroom to the far wall that faced Holding Street. He started reading again.

Confronting you directly, my beloved
,
I see all four at once
,

Yet 'tis for this very reason I canst see the ten
,

A heartbeat to the left or right and I see all four again
,

Though the last love may be obscured
.

Norton stared up at the huge wooden pillar in front of him to where it met the ceiling above, then back to its sandstone base. Betty, he pondered, you weren't talking about these four columns inside the manse, were you? Because standing right in front of them I can see all four at once. Though I can't, or canst, see no ten. I can't see any bloody thing. Les stepped half a pace to the left. Yes, now I can see all four again. Les stepped across to the right. Same thing here. And the last one's certainly obscure, ain't it? Norton stepped back to the left hand side and began slowly walking along the wooden columns. But this ten you're talking about, Betty? This ten I canst see. Les kept walking, then stopped next to the end column and looked up to where Father Eduardo had embossed his name on the wall. That wouldn't happen to be the X up there, would it? As in Eduardo, X for Xavier, Norton. And isn't an X ten in Roman numerals? It was when I went to school. And you definitely canst see it standing up the other end of the columns. Les opened the book and started reading again.

And tis indeed the last love I treasure most, my dearest
,

This is a love we both did share and shall ever treasure
,

Our laboured love
.
The last love at the manse
.

Betty, pondered Les again, closing the book. This last love you're talking about? The one you treasure most. You wouldn't happen to mean the last column, would you? The one at the end in front of the X? It's definitely the last one from the other end, ain't it? And it's pretty bloody obscure looking from up there. Les tapped the book against his hand and smiled. Betty, I've got this feeling that's what you're talking about. Norton shifted his gaze from the last column back to the end wall. And as for you, Eduardo X Norton. Les's smile got broader. I think I've twigged to your modus operandi too. Norton switched his gaze back to the end column. The thing is, though, if I have, there's still one burning question: If there is something in there. How the fuck do I get it out?