The Price of Butcher's Meat (4 page)

I could see she liked her little joke. But I didn't argue. I just wanted to sleep!

That were a couple of days ago. Spent most of the time since then sleeping 'cos every time I woke up there were some bugger ready to pinch and prod and poke things into me. Assessment they call it. More like harassment to me!

Third day, matron appeared all coy and girlish, straightened my
sheets, plumped my pillows, and said, “Big day, today, Mr. Dalziel. Dr. Feldenhammer himself is coming to see you.”

And that's when I first set eyes on Lester Feldenhammer, head quack at the Avalon. I could tell he were a Yank soon as he opened his gob. Not the accent but the teeth! It were like looking down an old-fashioned bog, all vitreous china gleaming white. Bet he gargles with bleach twice a day.

“Mr. Dalziel,” he said. “Welcome to the Avalon, sir. Your fame has preceded you. I'm honored to shake the hand of a man who got injured in the front line of the great fight against terrorism.”

I thought he were taking the piss, but when I looked at him I could see he were sincere. They're the worst kind. Never trust a man who believes his own crap.

I thought, I'll have to watch this one.

He shook my hand like he wanted to make sure it were properly attached and he said, “I'm Lester Feldenhammer, director of the Avalon, also head of Clinical Psychology. I think we've just about got your program sorted out, but the greatest aid to speedy recovery must come from within. I've taken the liberty of putting in your bedside locker a little self-help book I've written. It may help you to a fuller understanding of what's happening to you here.”

“Gideon Bible usually does the trick,” I said.

“We like to think of them as complementary,” he said. “I'm really looking forward to monitoring your progress, Mr. Dalziel. On matters physiological, you will, of course, have access to our specialized medical staff. On all other matters, I'm your man. Anything you want to know, you have only to ask.”

“Is that right?” I said. “So what's for dinner?”

He decided this were a joke and laughed like an accordion.

“I can see we're going to get along famously,” he said. “Now, there's something I'd like you to do for me.”

He pulled out this little shiny metal thing.

“I'm not swallowing that,” I said. “And if tha's thinking of getting it into me by some other route, tha'd best think again.”

This time, mebbe because it were a joke, he didn't laugh.

“It's a digital recorder,” he said. “State of the art, practically works itself. What I'd like you to do, Mr. Dalziel, is keep a sort of audio diary. Make a record of your feelings, your experiences, anything that comes into your mind.”

“You mean, you want me to start talking to myself?” I said. “Like the nutters do?”

“No, no,” he said. “Not to yourself. Just talk as if you're speaking to someone who knows absolutely nothing about you.”

“Like you, for instance?” I said.

He gave me a smile I could've played “Chopsticks” on and said, “I do in fact know a little about you. And I don't want you to think you're addressing me specifically. In fact, let me assure you, Mr. Dalziel, I will never listen to any part of it without your permission.”

“So if you're not going to hear it, what's the point?” I asked.

“The point is you saying things, not me hearing them,” he said. “You can keep a record of all those interesting little thoughts we so easily lose track of. Also you can ask yourself some of the really Big Questions. Think of it as part journal, part self-interrogation. I'm sure a man with your skills will be able to detect truth through no matter how cunningly woven a web of evasion and deceit. Will you do that for me?”

I said, “Mebbe. But if I don't get some grub soon, I may just swallow it anyway.”

He went off, laughing. And that's how I come to be lying here, talking to myself like a loony. Took another couple of days afore I dug Fester's little toy out. Man in bed's got to play with something. Nowt else to do. Newspapers these days aren't fit to wrap chips in. Telly's worse, and they don't feed me enough grub to enjoy a good crap!

Can't even do a runner. First, I've got no clothes. Spoke to Cap on the phone and she says she'll bring me some soon as they let her visit me. Second, got to face it, my leg's getting there, but I'm not back to running mode yet. I dumped them poncy elbow crutches they gave me at the hospital and got Cap to buy me a stout walking stick. I'm okay for short bursts, but after a couple of minutes, I'm ready for a sit-down.

Got to keep reminding myself, there's a world out there, a real world with people in it, and pubs, and it's likely full of scrotes pissing themselves laughing 'cos I'm stuck in here, talking to a machine.

Let them laugh.

I'll be back.

Sure as eggs.

Hi!

Nothing from you—maybe your teaky bronzy doc is keeping you busy—nudge nudge.

Ive made it to Sandytown—just finished unpacking in Kyoto House—built on a cliff top to catch all them healthy breezes—very eco-friendly—solar panels—wind driven generator—etc etc. Lovely room—looking out over the North Sea—all blue & sparkly just now—but I hope we get a storm before I go. Funny that—only other time I was here I prayed for warm sunshine—this time I want thunder & lightning!

The journey first—we stopped off at Willingdene as planned—to meet Gordon Godley—the healer.

I quite liked him—nutty as a fruitcake—but sort of nice with it.

Hard to say how old—45? 55?—not helped by a mad black beard threaded with silver—like a bramble bush on an autumn morning—but v young v gentle gray eyes—a nose like a flying buttress in a dolls cathedral & a lovely smile. I could see the unclaimed treasures of the area queuing up to have his hands laid on their aching joints.

Dont think he took to me though. Tom didnt help—introducing me with a version of my thesis proposal that made me sound like the witch-finder general—out on the rampage! Mr Godley wouldnt meet my eye—answered my questions with monosyllabic grunts—so I soon gave up.

However—he listened to Toms pitch with great courtesy—tho I got the
impression—using my finely honed analytical powers—that in fact he already knew a lot more about the Sandytown project than he was letting on. In the end—to shut him up I think!—he accepted Toms invite to make a visit to see if he felt called to bring
his ministry
there—Toms dead keen to get him onboard for what he calls the Festival of Health—scheduled for Bank Holiday weekend—Ill be long gone—thank heaven!—

Finally—at Marys request—Gord laid his healing hands on the sprained ankle.

As we left Tom claimed his injury was much improved.

—I felt a warmth—he asserted—A definite warmth as from a powerful sunlamp—

Back in the car—out of earshot of Mr Godley—I observed that—in veiw of the nature of the injury—I would have been more impressed if hed felt a definite coldness.

He turned in his seat—hed wanted me to sit in the front—but I insisted he needed the space because of his ankle—& gave me a delighted smile & said—see Mary how good Charlotte will be for us. Scientific objectivity—thats what we want. No chance of charlatanism ruining the good name of Sandytown with her keen eye upon us!—

Im not sure what lasting effect the healers hands might have on the sprained ankle—but one thing I feel certain of—Tom Parkers optimism is incurable!

Mary drove well & very carefully. If shed been at the wheel I doubt theyd have ended in the tank trap. On the other hand I couldnt regret that they had. My acceptance of their invitation might have been made in pique—but now I found I was really looking forward to the visit. Dont know if Ill get much useful thesis fodder out of it—after my start with Godly Gordon I guess Ill need to brush up my interviewing techniques—but being cast in the role of detached scientific observer tickled my fancy.

Like a camera—I will record—& not judge.

Or maybe Ill judge just a little! I am after all Steve Heywoods daughter.

Difference being—Ill keep my judgments to myself!

& you—of course!

 

Short break there.

Eldest kid—Minnie (= little Mary)—burst in to say lunch would be ready in 20 mins—& see if Id got everything I needed. Gave the impression shed been sent—but I suspect it was mainly her own idea—to check out the new fish! She talked nonstop—while her eyes gobbled everything up—especially my laptop. Shes 9 going on 90—reminds me of me at that age. Havent been bothering much with security—but now I may reactivate my password!

Got rid of her—by main force!—after a couple of minutes—so now I can get to the really exciting bit of the journey here—so pay attention!

Even at Marys steady pace it wasnt a long drive—but long enough for me to learn a little more about the Parkers. Old Yorkshire family—made their money in building—Tom trained as an architect—offices in Scarborough but siezed the opportunity offered by mod tech to work from home—4 kids—Minnie 9—Paul 8—Lucy 6—Lewis 5—apples of his eye—Marys too—but Tom comes first. I get the impression she doesnt like letting him take off alone—not cos she dont trust him sexually—but cos she worries what scrapes his enthusiasm might get him into! Like driving into the tank trap—I suppose!

He talked—with great affection—of his financier brother Sidney—younger—& invalid sister Diana—older. Without saying much—Mary gave the impression she has a few reservations about Sid in the City—& a whole bucketful about sister Di!

More to Mary than meets the eye. When Tom started rattling on about Kyoto House—inviting her agreement that it was in every way superior to the old Parker family home theyd swapped it for—she replied dutifully—I suppose youre right dear—but the old place did have such a pleasant garden—& so sheltered—

—yes—thats it entirely—he declared—as if shed confirmed everything hed said—It was indeed sheltered—from the benefits of the sea breeze—& sheltered from the veiw too—no outlook save for fields & trees! Now—from Kyoto up on North Cliff—on a clear day you can see halfway across
to Holland—& when Im working out ideas for the development scheme I dont need to sit at my drawing board—I just go into my garden & look down & there it all is at my feet—as it were!—

—did you design Kyoto yourself?—I asked.

—naturally!—marvelous feeling—not having anyone looking over your shoulder at the drawing board—do you follow? The opportunity afforded me by the consortium—of getting involved in planning & building on a large scale—was not the least of its attractions. Its going to be something new—I promise you—nothing piecemeal or accidental—every step carefully thought out—every detail pertinent & planned!—& a carbon footprint no bigger than a cats!—

The quality of light ahead was now giving promise of the sea. Against the intense blue sky I could see the rather sinister silhouette of a large house—more than a house—a mansion—with enough towers & turrets to give the impression it had had youthful ambitions to grow into a castle!

—Denham Park—said Tom.

—where Lady Denham lives?—I guessed.

—oh no. She lives at Sandytown Hall—he replied—which her first husband—Hollis—acquired—along with the Lordship of the Sandytown Hundreds—an ancient traditional rank—acquired by purchase—unlike her subsequent title—

It sounded to me like shed got that by purchase too—& I think I detected a little twitch from Mary. Us psychologists are v sensitive to twitches!

—the Denham property—Tom went on—& the baronetcy of course—went to her nephew-in-law—Edward—

Here our conversation was interrupted—wed been driving with the sunroof open—to get the full benefit of the invigorating Sandytown air I presume—& suddenly—in an instant—the car filled with the most disgusting smell imaginable.

Pig shit!—on a huge scale—it made our slurry lagoon seem like a rose bowl!

Mary hit the button to close the sunroof—apologizing profusely.

—the Hollis pig farm—she said—except calling it a farm is an insult to real farmers!—

—now now my dear—said Tom mildly—its a natural smell—& nothing natural is harmful to man—

—nothing natural about the way they keep those poor animals—said Mary.

—intensive farming is the price we pay for not wanting to pay the price we would have to pay without it—said Tom—& its very rare that the wind is in a quarter which wafts the aroma into Sandytown—

—indeed no!—said Mary—which is why Daphne Brereton spent most of her time at her first husbands house—even after shed married her second!—

Yes—I know—mysterious!—but all will be explained later. Meanwhile we drove for a mile or more alongside a high wired fence through which I could see rows & rows of concrete buildings with all the charm of a concentration camp. Finally we reached the main entrance to the site—with a huge double gate—& a sign reading
HOLLIS'S HAM—THE TASTE OF YORKSHIRE
—except that someone had been at work with a spray can—& it now read—
THE TASTE OF DEATH.

There was a man up a ladder with a bucket & scrubbing brush. He paused in his work as we passed & gave a wave. Tom wound down the window & called—Morning Ollie! More trouble, eh?—but Mary didnt slow down enough to give the man time to reply—& Tom closed the window again but not before wed got another near fatal dose of the porky pong!

A few minutes later Mary signaled to turn seaward as we approached a sign saying
SANDYTOWN VIA NORTH CLIFF
.

Tom said—my dear—why dont you take us round by South Cliff—& through the town—so Charlotte can give us her reactions—first impressions are so important—

Obediently Mary switched off the signal & drove on.

I didnt correct Tom about first impressions. Diplomatically I hadnt mentioned the famous excursion. Now I began to see for myself what Tom—of course—had already told me—that Sandytown—originally just a fishing village—is situated in a broad bay between two lofty headlands—North Cliff & South Cliff.

A loop of road runs down from North Cliff—through the village—then up to the coastal road again—via South Cliff.

Got that?—or do you need a diagram!—

As we approached the South Cliff turnoff—I could see the headland here was dominated by a complex of buildings. One of them looked like an old mansion house—green with ivy—with a long extension—in keeping but definitely recent. A couple of hundred yards away was a modern two storied building—the stonework brilliant white—broad reflective glass windows catching the drift of small white clouds across the bright blue sky. Alongside that—a long single storied building—in the same style.

We turned off the coast road—but before we began the descent proper—at Toms request Mary pulled in by a gilded entrance gate—set in a dense thorn boundary hedge—bit like the entrance to heaven in that Pilgrims Progress you got for a Sunday School prize—remember?—we used to tear pages out to roll our ciggies!

A large elegantly designed signboard was inscribed
WELCOME TO THE AVALON FOUNDATION
. There was a small gatehouse from which a man emerged—his face breaking into a smile when he recognized the car.

—Morning Mrs Parker—Mr Parker—he called.

—Morning Stan—replied Parker—How are things? Family well?—

—Yes thank you—all middling well. Yourself?—

—in the pink Stan—said Parker—which was either a bit of an exaggeration—or Mr Godleys healing hands really had done the business.

As they talked—I studied a site diagram beneath the welcome sign. It indicated that the main two storied modern block was the Avalon Clinic—the long single story was the Avalon Nursing Home—& the old house was the Avalon Convalescent Home.

A phone attached to the gate mans belt bleeped. He excused himself & turned away to answer it.

I said to Tom—how do the locals like having the clinic on thier doorstep?—

—some initial unease—lots of loose talk about lunatics & lepers—Tom replied—country folk are ready to believe the worst of strangers—but they also have an innate trust in authority. Round here that means Lady D &—to a lesser extent—myself. Once we showed the way—they followed—& suspicion has long been replaced by pride—

—the jobs & the extra income helped—observed Mary dryly.

The gate man was saying into his phone—no definitely not—nobody in the last hour—yes—Ill keep an eye out—dont imagine hell go far dressed like that!—

He switched off—turned back to the car & said—sorry Mr Parker—one of our convies has gone walkabout—elderly gent—might be a bit confused—Id best bring his photo up on the computer. See you soon I hope—

—you too Stan—said Parker.

Mary set the car forward. Ahead the road began its descent to the village.

—
Convies?
—I said—thinking
convicts!

—what?—Oh thats what the staff call those staying at the convalescent home. Patients at the clinic are
clinnies
—& residents of the nursing home are
rezzies.
What
they
call the staff I dont know—
Mary—take care!
—

Mary Parker—as I have said—drove very carefully—& shed stayed in low gear for the descent—so we werent doing much more than twenty miles an hour when she slammed the brakes on.

All the same—the sudden stop threw me forward—& I was glad for once Id obeyed the law & fastened my rear seat belt.

As they say—it all happened so quickly—but I still had time to glimpse a man rolling down the embankment rising steeply on the left to the clinics boundary hedge.

Then he bounced into the road & vanished under our wheels.

Everything stood still. The car—time—our hearts. We were all convinced wed run him over. But surely there would have been a bump?—I told myself.

Then there was one. Or at least the car shuddered.

For a moment this felt like a delayed confirmation of our worst fears.

But that didnt make sense. You cant run over someone after youve stopped!

Even as I reached this logical conclusion—a broad-domed almost bald head began to rise like a full moon over the horizon of the bonnet—& I realized that the shudder had been caused by the man gripping the front of the car to pull himself up.

He leaned on the bonnet. Heavily. There was enough of him to suggest that—if there had been a bump—it would have been a big one!