Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (19 page)

‘Your atheistic faith is touching, doctor,’ said Disvan, ‘but...’

‘Just a minute,’ I said, interrupting the theological debate that would doubtless have ensued. ‘I just can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Did you really say that man was dead?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘quite dead. I was there when he went.’

‘You were?’

‘Yes indeed. I was his doctor from the first time he complained of chest pains and his heart condition was diagnosed. I was called when he had his second heart attack and died.’

‘What happened?’

‘Much the same as usual in these cases, except that he was more talkative than most. I’d done all I could but he was obviously on the way out, and I didn’t think he’d make it to the hospital. All the way there in the ambulance he was giving quite a speech, considering his condition, about how unfair it was that his career should be cut short. Mind you, he’d been like that all the time I’d been attending him, right from the first test, but on his death bed—or death stretcher to be more accurate—he was really... indignant. Yes, that’s the right word. Indignant.’

‘Terence was always like that,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Even as a little boy he’d made up his mind what he was going to do with his life, and when—and woe betide anybody or anything in the way. Some people even said that he had a timetable of achievements written out.’

‘It was true, he had. His mother told me,’ said Lottie, who was listening in on our conversation.

‘I can well believe it,’ said Disvan. ‘Full of determination was our Terence. He never played games when he was a boy—which I thought strange at the time—and he never missed a day off school, passed all his exams, won prizes, and got his legal qualifications in record time. Life held great things in store for him.Which, I suppose, is why he wouldn’t leave it when a dodgy heart disrupted his timetable.’

‘That could be so,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘He’d just become a solicitor when the heart valve defect was detected and things were starting to move for him. Also, that company of his was taking off after the Board of Trade decided not to press charges.’

‘Wasn’t that the napalm for South Africa incident?’ asked Mr Disvan.

‘Yes, I think so. He managed to seduce the civil servant who was investigating—or was that the investigation before?  I forget now, but no matter. Anyway, all in all, in Terence’s terms he had a lot to live for.’

I couldn’t get enough of this. I was getting straight answers for once. ‘And so?’

‘So, a few minutes after I pronounced him dead in the ambulance and covered his face, the corpse sat up and said “NO!” in a very loud voice. Fair frightened the life out of his mother and the ambulance men, I can tell you—and me too now I come to think of it. Of course, I dashed over to see to him, and that’s when I found there were no vital signs. He’d just decided not to accept death.’

‘What did you do?’

‘In such situations there’s not much you can do. He was beyond needing my services, as you can imagine. By the time we’d got to the hospital and got the ambulance man down to a manageable level of hysteria—one of those university drop-out types—Terence was up and about, and he asked me if I’d see his mother home for him. I said okay, and then he just strode off into the night without another word. The next time I heard of him was about six months later in the context of a
News of the World
article about an executives’ escort agency he was allegedly running. Of course, that was a long time ago, when he was making his first hundred thousand pounds and things sometimes were a bit... tacky, to say the least. That’s all behind him now and he’s the epitome of respectability—on the surface, and for a few layers below as well.’

The doctor sipped his barley wine ruminatively for a moment before returning to the subject to add a coda of his personal views.

‘You should understand, Mr Oakley, that I mean no general criticism of someone not tolerating their death. No, not at all. It’s just a pity that it’s Terence the solicitor of all people who should be the one to manage it.’

‘I can’t agree with you there,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘All stories must have an end if they’re to have a meaning.’

‘Nonsense. For example, as far as we’re concerned the universe doesn’t end but even so, it does have a meaning.’

‘Really, doctor?’ said Disvan. ‘How interesting. What is the meaning of the universe then?’

‘It’s—‘

The doctor’s statement, upon which we were all hanging, was cut short by the opening of the bar door and Terence the solicitor’s re-entry. He seemed to have composed himself from his points defeat in the earlier verbal tussle and was smiling, if very insincerely, upon the assembled company.

‘Two more martinis, if you’d be so kind,’ he said.

The landlord looked at him suspiciously, seeking some hidden barb in this request but finding none.

‘Okay,’ he said at length, and set about the drinks’ preparation.

‘So kind.’

Suddenly looking round, Terence caught my intent gaze upon him before I could avert it. Looking at me coldly, he called across the bar, ‘I don’t recognise you. What’s your name?’

‘Mr Oakley,’ I replied, trying to appear undaunted and to forget just who or what was speaking to me.

‘Newcomer?’

‘Comparatively.’

‘An old Binscombe family, though,’ Mr Disvan interjected.

‘Educated too,’ said Terence.

‘More or less,’ I countered.

‘I see. Well, Mr... Oakley, a word of warning to you. Don’t believe every tale you’re told around here. To these people the concepts of the seventeenth century would represent a mighty leap forward.’

A sense of loyalty whose existence was hitherto unknown to me was affronted by this remark.

‘Is that so?’ I said. ‘In that case, I wonder if you’d permit me a favour, Mr Leander?’

‘What is it?’ Terence asked cautiously.

‘I’d like to test your pulse and listen to your heartbeat.’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Why not?’

Terence sighed and said to no one in particular, ‘On reflection I think the seventeenth century was a little too generous. Perhaps I should have said the eleventh century.’

‘Perhaps you should go back to the grave where you belong,’ said Mr Patel.

By now Terence the solicitor was halfway to the door, drinks in hand. At this last remark he stopped and laughed loudly.

‘Grave? Grave?’ he scoffed. Why should I go to the grave? Next month I’m launching a new international company with projected turnover of five hundred thousand within a year. All in all, I’m worth fifty mil on paper. I employ over two thousand people in three different countries, and within a few years my parent company will go public. I have five houses, take fifteen weeks holiday and a new eighteen-year-old mistress every year—and you tell me to go the grave? You think of your lifestyle compared to mine and then tell me who’s dead, eh?’

This might have been a telling point had the landlord not intervened.

‘Don’t sit out in the garden too long,’ he said, ‘it’s getting chilly and you might catch your death.’

Amidst general merriment Terence the solicitor glared at him.

‘You’ll laugh on the other side of your face when the road widening plans are published!’ he said and then stomped off.

‘Well, there you have it,’ said Mr Disvan when he had gone. ‘Rich, successful, dead, and a bit of a charmer.’

‘How come he’s so successful?’ I asked. ‘Any solicitor can be prosperous but making millions is another matter.’

‘Quite so,’ Disvan replied. ‘Well, in a funny way, you see, Terence’s death was the making of him. Since he didn’t need sleep any more after dying, he was able to devote twenty-four hours a day attention to his business interests. A profile I read in the
Financial Times
called him “the human dynamo”, although whether he’s a human any more is a moot point. Consequently, with that sort of industry and concentration, and Terence’s particular blend of energy and unscrupulousness, all his ventures flourish.’

‘Unless the law intervenes,’ said Mr Wessner.

‘Which it does less and less often as he gets richer and has less need for the more desperate sort of project. He’s also acquired relationships of mutual interest with people “in high places” as they’re called, and he and success now walk side by side.’

‘Actually,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘it may be he doesn’t sleep because if he did, if his attention slipped for one second, his disbelief in his own death would be suspended.’

‘And then he’d really die,’ I said.

‘Possibly. Or perhaps decomposition might set in,’ the doctor agreed.

I went over to the window and looked out into the garden where Terence the solicitor, arm around his shrinking girlfriend, gazed lizard-like, unblinkingly at the other patrons around him. It was possibly an effect of my overworked imagination, but it did seem as if the sunlight around him was dimmer than elsewhere and that, in his immediate vicinity, laughter and good cheer ceased.

‘Is his threat about the motorway and the MOD and so on, serious?’ I asked.

‘In what way?’ said Mr Disvan.

‘I mean, could he do it?’

‘I dare say, if he pulled out all the stops and called in all his favours. He won’t do it however, because, firstly we don’t justify that sort of supreme effort, and secondly because he knows that a single word from us could ruin him.’

‘Is he really that powerful?’

‘Certainly. In a perverse sort of way we’re almost proud of him, despite his unfortunate manner, seeing as he’s Binscombe’s most famous son. There’s been talk in some of the papers that he might be a minister if he keeps on the way he’s going. It was with that in mind that we tried to sell his secret to the Russian embassy—for the church roof restoration fund, you understand. Sadly, they wouldn’t believe us.’

‘Minister?’ I said incredulously.

‘Yes. Probably defence, given his links with the armaments industry, or maybe even Prime Minister. If he doesn’t set the missiles flying while he’s in office, he could end up in the Lords. Imagine that: Lord Binscombe!’

Quite suddenly the alien-ness created by the story I had just heard dissipated. That name and face was indeed familiar to me. I turned to look at Mr Disvan, and he could hardly have failed to detect the surprise and horror on my face.

‘Do you mean that he’s..?’

‘Oh, didn’t I mention that?’ said Disvan. ‘I assumed you’d know. Yes, Terence Leander is your local MP.’

HERE IS MY RESIGNATION

Binscombe Station was too pleasant and restful a place from which to commence yet another day’s hard labour. The commuters who waited there every morning, at least those who could still appreciate such things, were lulled into pleasant thoughts by the leafy surroundings and abundance of green all about. They temporarily forgot the painful wrench of rising too early and the spoilt pleasures of a hurried breakfast amidst the splendours of birdsong and the sunlight filtering through the foliage. Therefore, when their train arrived, it always came as an unwelcome intrusion of the mundane, workaday world into the beauty that was spread out by nature for all, if they would only accept it. The consequent hostile glares that greeted the train driver as he passed by the serried ranks on the platform had been a byword and cause for puzzlement among generations of railwaymen.

Constructed as a late Victorian afterthought in a time when there was no lack of cash and confidence, Binscombe Station had escaped later modification by management or German bombs and therefore remained much as its original designer intended. The building itself was of local Bargate stone, which gave it a warm, welcoming aspect and, in line with the thinking of the age of their construction, the doors, windows and guttering had been used to ornament and beautify as well as merely serve their basic purpose. Gracious features such as a ladies’ waiting room and colourful flowerbeds were still maintained by the staff who, being largely local men, were rarely rude or offhand to travellers. All of which is to say that the station had clearly survived past its time.

It was set in a deep cutting through a chalk outcrop and could barely be seen from the main road which ran nearby. Similarly, trains came upon it almost by surprise as they rounded a tight curve, traversed a short tunnel and found themselves, without much warning, at a station on the outskirts of a village. To the stranger and the uninitiated, this phenomenon was the cause of many a rushed disembarkation and a small mountain of forgotten luggage over the years.

A great variety of trees and shrubs had found a foothold (or roothold) in the soil on the sides of the cutting and, by and large left alone by British Rail, they flourished to provide a green sward on either side of the station. In summer and autumn, passengers on this small part of the line could be forgiven for thinking that they were travelling through the centre of a wood instead of a busy part of an increasingly busy world.

Because of these qualities, Mr Peter Pelling had a great fondness for Binscombe Station and he did not begrudge the time he spent there each and every week-day. Some days he would even arrive earlier than necessary so as spend a few extra minutes in enjoying its atmosphere before being conveyed off to his daily combat in London. Mr Pelling’s glare at the train driver each morning, although he was quite unaware of making it, was one of the fiercest the man had to receive.

Pelling had lived in Binscombe for nearly ten years at the time of this tale, subsequent to his tiring of the burglaries and noise in his previous home in London. He had never regretted the change, although the commuting was somewhat irksome. What he did notice after the move, however, was a slowly growing reluctance to spend his days as he did. He had first ignored the emotion and, when this policy failed to still its voice, had analysed it
ad nauseam
without satisfactory result.

Within it there was a dislike of the metropolis and its people, certainly. There was also an element of boredom with his work and colleagues, but even together they did not nearly add up to the spirit of anger he felt. Mr Pelling resented the time he had to spend working to pay his mortgage and, although he had no other great projects or interests in mind, he felt a burgeoning sense of loss or waste with each hour spent in gainful employment. In this frame of mind he saw, or thought he saw, through the facade of purpose to glimpse the utter futility of the company in whose service he had spent his life. Feeling something of a hypocrite (for he still drew his salary) he went on a one man go-slow but found it went unnoticed. In rash moments he even threw one or two minor and untraceable spanners into the company’s smooth operations, but no one cared overmuch. At the age of forty-five, with an impeccable name and not unsuccessful career record behind him, Mr Pelling had become as rebellious as any mohicanned punk or class war activist. Since he did not feel at home with either group he searched around in books until he came up with the title ‘Nihilist’ to describe himself. This seemed to fit rather well, although it brought him no pleasure.

On this particular morning, Mr Pelling felt especially discontented, and the fact that he was resigned to his fate only intensified his fractiousness. At 10:00 am he was due for a meeting with an important client famed for his aggressive and patronising behaviour. Mr Pelling would have to grit his teeth and feign interest in the man’s torrent of drivel as he had done many times in the past, while the client satisfied whatever curious itch made him behave in this way. Though he despised himself for it, Mr Pelling knew he would act as a company man should. There was too much at stake for him not to.

Pelling always stood at the same spot on the platform. A short period of experimentation had led him to believe that from there could be had the most pleasant view while he waited, and the greatest chance of a seat on the train when it arrived. None of the more chatty commuters or notorious nose-pickers or coughers waited near the spot in question, and therefore Mr Pelling felt that boarding the train from that point made the best of a bad job.

A dense and wild thicket grew right down to the platform’s edge, and quite often Mr Pelling chose to turn about and study the abundant life therein rather than look at the opposite side of the cutting. There was generally something interesting to see there, be it animal, plant or an unusual piece of litter deposited by man or wind. Mr Pelling liked to watch the bees or butterflies that visited the thicket or the wild flowers and tall weeds that made it their home. Because he didn’t ponder the matter too deeply, he envied the birds, insects and flowers (and even the occasional cat) their liberty and freedom from stress, and he wished that somehow society could be changed, preferably right now, so that man could live that way too. Just then the train would generally arrive, and Mr Pelling would dutifully board it and take his cosmic discontent to London.

Today, as has been said, Mr Pelling was particularly dispirited, and so turned naturally to the thicket for an all too brief look at what real life was up to. He was shocked, to say the least, to see that a far from natural pair of eyes were regarding him from the very depths of the greenery.

Pelling looked quickly around to check that he had not been spirited away to some other place, but found that he was still in the reasonably reassuring normality of Binscombe Station. Other commuters were beginning to arrive, cars were pulling up in the car park, and all was as it nominally should be. He turned again and found that the eyes were still fixed unblinkingly upon him. He had half hoped that they would have disappeared so that he could dismiss the incident as mere fancy, but that was hardly possible now.

They were of a slightly luminous yellow colour, almond shaped, and had no pupils that he could detect. It was difficult to discern their owner’s form through the dense vegetation but Mr Pelling thought—though how could it be?—that he could just see a slim, humanoid figure crouching there.

‘Er... hello,’ he said uncertainly.

There was no immediate reply but, perhaps half a minute later, a slim white hand snaked elegantly out of the bushes and, with the motion of one gold be-ringed finger, beckoned Mr Pelling forward.

Pelling now noticed that there were perhaps a dozen or so pairs of eyes, identical to the first he’d seen, in a semicircle in front of him.

‘What do you want?’ he asked with commendable, if counterfeit, calmness.

The voice that replied sounded very, very old and yet still at the height of its powers. In tone it was like the most beautiful—but heartless—music; like a requiem composed by a high demon.

‘Mr Pelling,’ it said, ‘we’ve watched you for a long time. Now we’d like to put a proposition to you.’

*  *  *

‘What’s up with that bloke?’ said Mr Oakley. ‘He’s talking to the hedge.’

Mr Disvan looked along the platform at Mr Pelling but did not reply.

The two men were travelling to London together by arrangement, for reasons of company. Mr Disvan intended to visit his stockbroker and then make use of the facilities of the British Museum library, to which he had some power of access. Mr Oakley was journeying on a peace mission, one judged sufficiently important to take time off work, to his mistress-cum-fiancée of the moment. To make a full day of it, they had agreed to travel early on one of the commuter trains.

‘Look,’ Mr Oakley continued. ‘He’s thrown his tie away—and his briefcase!’

‘Well, well, well,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘I haven’t seen that for donkey’s years. So they’re still around, are they?’

Mr Oakley was about to ask just who ‘they’ were but was prevented by the spectacle of Mr Pelling’s sudden dash into the thicket, heedless of thorn and briar, and his eventual disappearance from sight. For a little while the crash and clump of his progress up the side of the cutting could be heard but then this too faded. Mr Oakley thought he could just detect, at the very limit of hearing, a shrill and triumphant keening (if that is not a contradiction in terms) but this also soon passed away—if it had ever existed.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ he asked

‘Nothing to worry about’ said Mr Disvan cheerfully. ‘Just another one away with the faeries.’