The Judas Sheep (14 page)

‘Yeah, you got it, Jeff. Illicit drugs. Tobacco is legal.’

‘The bottom line,’ Norris said, ‘is that we need them to grow the stuff, and they need to grow it to survive. We provide them with a market for their crop, earning
good ol’ American dollars for them. Fallon disagrees, of course. He’s promising to cut off aid to
tobacco-growing
countries. Then he’s going to tax our exports and tax our profits. He won’t be happy until he drives us extinct. He’s on a crusade, and right now Britain is looking for a crusader.’

The other two thought about what he’d said until Jefferson broke the silence. ‘You make it sound real bad.’

‘It is.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

Norris twirled his glass between his fingers. ‘I don’t want to be too specific,’ he said, ‘but I’d like you both to contribute to a fighting fund.’

‘A fighting fund?’

‘Yeah. I’ve been talking to some guys. Professionals. For a price, they can solve our little problem.’

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Three-quarters of a million bucks each, plus a few expenses.’ They took the news as if they’d enquired the price of a new hat. Norris went on: ‘You’d have to lose it somewhere. Would that cause a problem, Jeff?’

‘No, no problem. I’d just give the race team an extra million and tell them I wanted eight hundred grand back, in used tens. They can spend that much on tyres.’

‘Krystal?’

‘No problem, Brad. I’d lose it in the advertising budget.’

‘OK. Are you both in, then?’

Jefferson looked puzzled. ‘So what’s it to be?’ he asked. ‘A dirty tricks campaign?’

Norris said: ‘No, Jeff. Dirty tricks are not straightforward enough for a simple country boy like me.’

Krystal turned to face Jefferson. ‘I think what Brad has in mind, Jeff, is solving our problem – how shall I put this? – the American way.’ She pointed at him with a forefinger and raised her thumb, imitating the hammer of a pistol.

Jefferson said: ‘Oh. Jeez!’

‘All I want is your money,’ Norris told them, quietly. ‘For that, I’ll guarantee our problems will go away. You won’t need to know anything about anything. Can I count you in?’

Jefferson nodded. ‘Count me in, Brad.’

Krystal Wallach raised her glass. ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ she said, pausing for the others to raise theirs.

‘To the American way.’

They clinked glasses. ‘The American way.’

Saturday morning I collected the Transit from Merlin Couriers. Eric wanted to chat, but I escaped as politely as I could. The butcher handed the two bags of lamb over to me and I went home. Nigel had left a message on the ansaphone. I rang him at the station and he told me that he had dropped the key off at Number 1, Longdyke Cottages. Kevin Jessie would be in all day.

I snapped the arrow into three pieces, leaving the pointed end about six inches long, and the bit with the feathers about two. I trimmed the feathers to half size with the kitchen scissors. Carefully removing the white Sellotape from around the neck of one of the bags of lamb, I selected the largest piece of meat in there. I pinned it down on the kitchen worktop with my left hand and drove the pointed end of the arrow through it. It would
have been easier to have broken it after I’d stabbed the joint, but you live and learn – all this was new to me. I rubbed the short piece of arrow, with the feathers, in blood and dropped it into the bag, putting the large piece of meat back in with it. I washed my hands and re-sealed the bag with my own, clear, Sellotape. The fish and chip shop was open, so I lunched before driving the ninety miles to the cottage.

The Merlin Couriers Transit wandered about on the motorway like a drunkard in a gale. It had done 187,000 miles. I did some mental arithmetic. That was nearly eight times round the world. More, if you didn’t count the oceans. It rattled like an RSPCA collection tin at a foxhunt, and a draught from around the window threatened to sever my head. I pulled into the drive at the side of Number 2 with a raging pain behind my right eye and frostbite in my ear.

I sat for a few minutes with the engine running and slowly thawed out. The headache subsided, too, I’m pleased to say.

Jessie came to the door before I knocked. I started to ask him if the estate agent had left a key with him, but he just held it out towards me. He hadn’t done too well in the Good Looks Grand Prix. He was about
five-ten
and podgy with it, with a face like a suet pudding, framed by lank mousy hair. Age? About thirty-five, gone to seed.

‘Er, cheers,’ I said, taking the key before he closed the door on my outstretched arm.

The cottage was nice inside. ‘Cottage’ is a bit grand. It was a two-up, two-down semi, but it had a certain charm. The morning sun would catch it, and you could see the river in the distance. Could be spooky when the fog rolled in.

The place was rented as being furnished, and there was nearly everything you needed to get by. In summer it was let to holidaymakers, but the owners were wanting a more permanent arrangement. I had a good look round, making a note of things I might need.

The bed had a mattress on it, still with a plastic bag covering it. That made me feel more comfortable. I had a look in the other, smaller bedroom, and found a single bed in there. Good, I thought. No water came out of the taps when I tried them, which is a sensible precaution in winter. The stop tap was under the sink. I turned it on, then turned it off again, as hard as I could.

This time I knocked, but he still answered it as if he’d been waiting, hand poised on the doorknob. ‘Sorry to trouble you again,’ I told him, ‘but I can’t get the water on. I’ve found the tap but it’s too stiff for me to move. You haven’t a pair of pliers or a wrench I could borrow for a moment, have you?’

‘Wait a minute,’ he replied, and disappeared back inside. A few seconds later he handed me a pair of pliers with red plastic handles.

‘My name’s Charlie, by the way,’ I said, taking them. ‘Looks as if we’ll be neighbours for a while.’

‘Kevin,’ he mumbled.

I held out my hand and he offered his. It was like shaking hands with a corpse. Nigel was right – there was something herpetological about him. Maybe it was the scales.

‘I’ll be straight back,’ I told him. I dashed in, turned the water on by hand and immediately returned with the pliers.

‘Cheers. There’s nothing like having the right tool for the job.’ As he turned to leave me I said: ‘You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’

‘A vegetarian? No, why?’

‘Do you like lamb?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Lamb? It’s all right. Why?’

I winked at him. ‘I have a supplier. I’ll bring you some. Thanks for the loan of the pliers.’ It was my turn to leave him standing there.

I finished my list, checking the heating and the meter readings, and went home to Heckley. It had been a good day, except that I realised I could have managed with just half a sheep. I called in at the supermarket and bought lots of vegetables and jars of sauces. At the checkout I impulse bought a cookery magazine that was running a feature on ten delicious things to do with lamb.

In the evening I opened the bag with the white Sellotape still round it and played at being Sweeney Todd. When I’d finished, the kitchen looked like a charnel house. I threw the biggest pile of bloody fragments in the dustbin and cooked the rest. I made lamb casseroles,
lamb hotpot, lamb stew, lamb rissoles, lamb curry, lamb pudding, lamb trifle, lamb jam. I stuffed the lot in the freezer, using every container and dish I possessed, and fell into bed after midnight. I couldn’t sleep, so I tried counting sheep, but they kept chasing me.

I was up early but instead of going to church I visited the local DIY store and bought four miles of heavy duty draught-sealing strip and attacked the van doors with it. Just in case it didn’t work, I wore an old tracksuit top with a hood. After I’d loaded surprisingly few belongings into the van, plus the bag containing the left half of an assemble-it-yourself sheep, I drove to the cottage again. I was going to grow very familiar with the M62 and the road through Hull in the next few weeks. I wore the hood over my ears for the first few miles, but once the interior of the van warmed through it wasn’t too bad.

Kevin Jessie’s Opel was still outside his house. I grabbed the bag of meat and knocked at his door.

‘Stick that in your freezer,’ I told him when he came, thrusting the bag forward.

‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it.

‘Lamb. I asked you if you liked it.’

‘Oh, ta. Smashing. How much?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Eight quid, if it’s any good to you. Pay for my petrol.’

‘Right.’

He gave me the exact money and went back inside to check if he’d been ripped off, while I unloaded my van.
Most of the stuff I’d bought was bedding. The invention of the duvet was the answer – well, part of the answer – to a bachelor’s prayer. Cornflakes were a big help, too. I plugged in the little black and white telly, that I’d probably never watch, and my rasta-blaster, which I’d listen to non-stop. I stuffed an old Jimi Hendrix tape into it and wound the volume up loud. Might as well test the acoustics of the dividing wall.

It was half an hour later that I caught his knock at the door, between the wailing chords of All Along the Watchtower, but he hadn’t come to complain about the noise. He held his hand towards me, and laid across his palm were two pieces of wood. The longer piece had a steel point at one end, and the other had narrow feathers. He’d found my pretend crossbow bolt.

‘Ah!’ I said, looking, well, sheepish. I took the bits from him. ‘You, er, weren’t supposed to see that.’ He was grinning as if he had a toothless ferret up his trouser leg. I went on: ‘I thought it had gone straight through. The butcher must have found it. He joints them for me. Half for him, half for me. Forget you saw it, eh, Kevin?’

‘Never saw a thing, Charlie,’ he replied.

‘Great.’ I opened the door wide. ‘Kettle’s just boiled. Fancy a brew?’

‘Some other time, if you don’t mind.’

‘OK.’

Shit, I thought, as I flopped on to the little settee, this is hard work. He was biting, but not hard enough.
Maybe I’d have to buy that Rottweiler after all, to get through to him. Hendrix was hurting my ears, so I swapped him for Joan Baez. My musical development ceased with the demise of split-knee flares.

I stayed at the cottage overnight. Further exploration revealed one of those poles that allows you to play tennis with yourself, and a couple of board games – Monopoly and Scrabble. The double bed was extremely comfortable. Eating my breakfast of toast and marmalade in front of the gasfire, I caught the final summary of the news on Radio Four. The group calling itself TSC was claiming another victory. They’d admitted planting a firebomb in a restaurant in Liverpool. It had been quite a blaze, and the manager and his wife, who were Irish, were missing. Remains of two bodies were being examined. I shook my head at the futility of it and hoped they’d stay away from Heckley. Drugs pushers I could handle, terrorists were something else.

There was only one item of mail lying on the doormat, but it was what I’d been waiting for. I felt like a change, so I had roast chicken for tea. Lamb is very nice, but you can have too much of it – I was beginning to speak with a New Zealand accent. Afterwards, when it had been digested, I jogged to the letterbox about three-quarters of a mile away and posted my expenses to Commander Fearnside. I was worried about my fitness, and also about the money I was spending on my journeys to
Wickholme, so I’d decided to submit expenses forms weekly, and jog to the postbox with them.

With perfect timing, the phone rang as soon as I started to shampoo my hair, under the shower. I dashed down the stairs and grabbed it – it might have been a long-distance call, you never know.

‘Charlie Priest,’ I said.

It was the E-type man, wondering if I’d come to a decision. I wiped the foam from my eyes with the corner of my wrist and asked him to ring back in ten minutes.

I was sitting there, all neat and shiny in clean clothes when he did. The postcard from Annabelle was in my hand. She’d arrived safely, had met up with her colleagues, but was missing me. That was nice of her. She thanked me for my birthday card and promised to write a long letter when she had the chance. I’d made the birthday card myself and smuggled it into her
hand-luggage.
It was a long water-colour sketch of all the animals of Africa wishing her a happy birthday, with a little policeman at the end adding his own greeting. As a PS she asked: Did you buy the car?

Secretly, I think she was quite keen. I had to admit that she looked gorgeous sitting in it. It was a lot of money, though, and a car like that was wasted on me. I picked up the phone, prepared to disappoint someone.

‘Hello, Mr Priest. Sorry to keep bothering you,’ he said.

‘It’s no bother,’ I assured him.

‘Fact is, Mr Priest, I have an appointment with the bank manager tomorrow afternoon. After that, it’s down the tube for me. I can afford to let you have the Jag back for five thousand less than I gave you for it. That’s as low as I can go.’

We fenced around for a while, me making sympathetic noises, him saying that I was his last realistic hope of selling it in time, and apologising for making it sound like blackmail. He was a good bloke, banging his head on the wall of the recession. I couldn’t believe it when I heard this voice telling him to bring it round in the morning – I’d make a decision then. I replaced the handset and bashed my own head against the kitchen wall.

It was a beautiful spring morning when he pulled into my street – even nature was conspiring against me. He’d obviously given it a good waxing, and it shone like a supermarket tomato as it sat there on the drive. Just before he switched off he gave the obligatory blip on the accelerator. It sounded like a lion giving a warning growl: come any closer at your peril, was the message. I went out and walked round it, absorbing the smells of polish and hot oil, listening to the clicks and hisses of contracting metal.

He’d driven up from Nottingham, so I invited him in for a coffee. ‘I’ve brought all the documents,’ he told me, ‘and the receipts for the work I’ve had done on it.’

I gave them a perfunctory once-over. He’d certainly spared no expense, and it was as near to new as a car
made in 1962 could possibly be. Take me for a drive,’ I said.

The intention had been to turn right at the main road and head up on to the moors, but I’d made my decision before we reached the junction. I told him to turn left, into Heckley. We parked in a pay-and-display and I led him into my bank.

It was the biggest single cheque I’d ever drawn, but it still left five grand, plus interest, in the high rate account I’d opened specially for his cheque, a year ago. And now I had the car back, so I don’t suppose it was a bad morning’s work, although my shaking knees weren’t convinced.

Back at my house we drew up a contract, signed the documents, and I telephoned the insurance broker and had the E-type put on my policy.

When I handed him the cheque he said: ‘I loved that car, Mr Priest, but this will save … this will save …’ He couldn’t say the words, and lowered his head, embarrassed, so I never found out what it would save.

I carried our cups into the kitchen and took my time washing them. When I went back I said: ‘Look, I’ll probably keep the Jag a couple of years, then sell it. If you get turned around, want it back before then, you can have it at the same price. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds very fair, Mr Priest.’

‘Right. So how about ringing your wife to tell her
you found a sucker to take it off your hands, then I’ll drive you home in it.’

I rearranged the stuff in the garage – lawnmower, broken lawnmower, half-empty tins of magnolia emulsion – so that the ketchup torpedo would fit in, and relegated the Cavalier to the drive. Friday morning I swapped them around again and drove the E-type into town. I called in at the travel agents and the bank, then drove to the cottage. The travel agent had managed to squeeze me in on the evening ferry to Rotterdam, and we boarded at five-thirty.

I skidded into the drive of the cottage with a flurry of revs and scrunching gravel. This was my no-
time-to
-waste entrance. I slammed the Jag door moderately hard and dashed inside. Readers’ Digest had tracked me down, otherwise nothing had changed. I ran up the stairs, making as much noise as I could, then flopped on the bed, listening, for several minutes. Nothing.