Gold by Gemini (12 page)

I told Manton and Wilkinson good night. They were locked in well. Odd, but I distinctly remember wishing for once that I’d a dog. One of the villagers has two geese. He says they’re better than any watchdog.

Algernon was due soon for his test. I’d have to get ready. I went in and shut the cottage door.

Outside, the lights of all the world must have seemed to dowse with a slam.

It was late. I’d given Algernon his quiz. Results: dreadful. I’d been teaching him the difference between jet, black jadeite and black pigmented acrylate resins. (Today’s hint: go for nineteenth-century Whitby jet brooches if you’re wanting the very best. They’re worth the premium. And genuine jet’s practically impossible to copy.) He’d suggested the easiest way’s burning – jet burns, you see. I’d explained that keeping the jewellery intact’s preferable to a heap of ash. I’d shown him how I measure specific gravity (jet’s not more than 1.40, which is peanuts to jadeite’s 3.30 or even more; acrylate resin’s never far from 1.18). It’s not foolproof, but you’re a lot nearer the truth knowing details like this. I sent Algernon home after he’d made me lose my temper.

I was wondering whether to slip over to the White Hart. Even with only a few quid staving the wolf from the door a body has a right to drown his sorrows, after Algernon. There was a knock at the door. Funny how you get the feeling. It was Algernon again.

‘Forgotten something?’ I snapped; I hadn’t heard his bike go.

‘Er . . . Lovejoy.’ No stammer, no cheery grin, no move to barge in and start dropping the nearest valuable.

‘What is it?’

‘Something’s wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘Your budgies.’

I was out and round the side of the cottage before I could think, blundering blindly into my precious
camellia. Like a fool I’d not pulled back the curtains for light. I couldn’t see a damned thing.

‘Fetch a light, Algernon, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Coming!’

‘Manton?’ I said softly towards the flight pen. ‘Wilkie? Are you –’

The click behind me trapped the garden in light. Algernon’s headlamp.

‘Mantie?’ For a second I could see nothing wrong. I fumbled for the key, thinking perhaps to undo the padlock.

Then I noticed the lock’s iron loop was wrenched free. The flight’s, door was aslant and pulled away.

‘What is it, Algernon?’ I asked, puzzled, stepping forward.

Near my face a small breath sounded. I looked at the door jamb.

Wilkinson was crucified on the wood. Nails were projecting through his blue wings. There was some blood. His feet were drawn upwards tight clenched, as if a groping search for a twig on which to rest had been too hopeless anyway.

‘A hammer,’ I babbled. ‘Pincers. For Christ’s
sake
–’

I pushed Algernon aside and crashed through the garden to my shed, scattering tools and cutting myself in a demented crazy grope along shelves. Things went flying. I tore back, smashing plants and blundering into the cottage wall as I went.

I’d got a claw hammer. It was too short, but it’s the only one I have.

‘There’s not the leverage,’ I sobbed in a blind rage, trying to get purchase, of the claw on the nail. The distance from the nail to the door jamb was too great. I needed some sort of support, some bloody thing to
rest the sodding hammer on. Why do I never have the proper fucking tools? I daren’t press on his wing. Wilkinson tried to turn his head. I couldn’t lodge the hammer against his frail body or it’d crush him.

‘Coming, Wilkie,’ I blubbered. ‘Coming.’

There was nothing for it. I put my thumb under the hammer to protect him and yanked the claw up. My thumb spurted blood. The pain flashed me backwards like a blow but the nail was out. Thank Christ. I got up, Wilkinson was hanging by one wing, trying to flap with his bloodstained wing. I held him in my palm to take his weight. I’d forgotten. And I call other people Neanderthal.

‘Come here, Algernon.’ I was suddenly pouring sweat but calm at last. I gave him the hammer in the mad silent glare and nodded at the second nail. My bad hand cupped Wilkinson’s body for his own weight. I put my good one over Wilkinson’s impaled wing.

‘Do it.’

‘But your hand will –’

‘
Do it!
’

He shoved upwards. The hammerhead grated smoothly into my knuckles. I heard two bones go. Oddly the pain was less this time though the blood poured in a great stream down my forearm. Wilkinson came free. As he did, he arched his little back. Then he bowed his beak and bit my bloodied thumb as he died. I felt the life go out of him like, well, like a flying bird. It was his last gesture to the world he had known. All that he was or ever had been culminated in one futile bite.

‘Hold him, please.’

Algernon cupped his gauntlets to receive Wilkinson.

‘He’s dead, Lovejoy.’

‘Shut your stupid face,’ I snarled, ‘Did you see Manton?’

‘No. Maybe he’s escaped.’

Please God, please. I moved quietly about the flight. ‘Mantie? Mantie?’ Maybe he’d ducked inside his covered house. There was a lot of space where a budgie could hide. Or even get out. I edged towards it, calling softly.

Algernon spotted Manton first. He was hunched on the ground in the corner of the flight, squatted down in the grotesque shadows.

‘There!’

‘He’s safe!’ I said. ‘Manton!’ I went over. He didn’t move, just stayed facing the flight’s open space in that crouching attitude. He’d normally have edged over but was probably stunned at the shock. ‘Mantie.’ I sat on the ground beside him feeling the relief. I was suddenly giddy. I think I’d lost a lot of blood. It seemed everywhere. My hands pulsed pain.

‘Lovejoy.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m afraid I think your other budgie’s . . .’

‘Algernon,’ I whispered softly from my position on the grass. ‘Come here.’

He stepped over, still cupping Wilkinson, for all the world like a weird lunar being blocking the headlight’s shine.

‘Yes?’

‘What were you going to say, Algernon?’ I asked, still ever so soft and gentle.

I saw his eyes wander nervously behind his specs.

‘Er . . . nothing, Lovejoy. Nothing.’

‘That’s good,’ I whispered. ‘Now put Wilkinson on his ledge inside.’

He moved carefully past, carrying Wilkinson in his hands like a priestly offering. A moment later he emerged and stood fidgeting. Everything some people do drives you mad sometimes. Algernon’s that kind.

‘I’ve done it.’

‘Not so loud!’ I hissed.

‘What will you do now, Lovejoy?’ he whispered.

‘I’ll stay here. He’s frightened.’

‘But he hasn’t moved,’ he said.

‘Of course he hasn’t,’ I shot back furiously as loudly as I dared. ‘He’s in a state of shock. Wouldn’t you be?’ Bloody fool.

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Then shut your teeth.’

‘Certainly.’ He dithered in the oblique light. ‘What do you want me to do? You’re all bleeding.’

I was, too, both hands. My left thumb was a pulp. I couldn’t move my right hand which was swelling rapidly. It looked huge, but things always look worse badly lit.

‘Shall I get a vet, Lovejoy?’

I peered at him suspiciously. ‘What would you get a vet for?’

‘Er, to tell you . . .’ He ground to a halt.

‘To tell me what, Algernon?’ I whispered savagely.

‘Nothing.’

‘Go home, Algernon.’ I was suddenly finished.

‘Home?’

‘Home,’ I nodded. ‘Now.’ I watched him back away towards his motorcycle. It was tilted crazily on the grass. I remember feeling surprised. He’s mad about his pop-pop, yet he must have just rushed the machine across the garden and flung it down with the headlamp on.

He pushed it on to the gravel and started up. I heard him call something but that’s typical of Algernon, start up a motorbike and assume it’s inaudible. Stupid. He slithered down the driveway and out on to the metalled road. Gravel everywhere, of course. Manton and I watched the lights swathe the hedgerows. Finally, only the sound remained, faintly humming through the village. We heard him change up, sudden as ever, on the Bercolta road. Then he faded and we were left alone, sitting on the grass in the wretched flight.

The lights of Lexton were shining in the distance, an unpleasing orange. The sky picks up the illuminance and casts a faint tinge on the starglow. I talked to Manton, trying to make him feel that maybe the nightmare was over now and things were at least moving towards normal.

‘It’s my fault, Mantie,’ I told him. No use trying to shelve the blame.

He’d normally have chirped there, but it’s sensible to harbour your strength if you’ve had a bad shock, isn’t it? You know how it is when you’ve been ill, how conversation takes it out of you. It’s best to stay quiet.

‘There’s a sensible bird!’ I praised, still in a whisper. ‘Keep warm, Mantie.’

No good getting one place warm and moving to another, is it? That would be stupid. They know what to do when they’re off colour. Not like people. We’re daft as brushes. Animals are practical. They have an innate sense, haven’t they?

I don’t remember much of the rest. I remember feeling a cold wind springing up, but maybe that was just the effect of the blood loss. I saw blackish gobs and strings of blood on the ground, and all over my leg, and
wondered how the hell that had happened. I fell over a few times, mercifully avoiding where Manton huddled. Janie came. I cursed her from habit, and told her to shut the light off.

I remember arguing with her and calling her a stupid obstinate bitch. She tried bringing an umbrella from the car to shield us from the driving rain which started up. Good old Algernon had telephoned her. It must have been some conversation.

About dawn I vaguely remember hearing a man’s voice asking if this was the one, something like that, and Janie’s defiance. I had to pee
in situ
, which can’t have improved my appearances much. The blood on the mud was like those Victorian oil-layered flyleaf bindings. I told Janie to get his seed for him, as he was probably hungry.

I woke in the early light. The rain had ended. No wind. No noise. The robin was looking down at me. I came abruptly out of the nightmare. The robin flew, suddenly sticking like glue to the twig as they do in midflight. I made myself turn and look at Manton. He was crouched because he was impaled on a stake driven into the ground through his little back. Janie was there, a blanket over her dress and almost concealing her mink coat. Stiletto shoes and all. I remembered her husband’s voice saying, ‘And people in our position, Janie,’ and asking, ‘What are you thinking of?’

After a bit I told her to help me up. I leaned on her like a drunken matelot, quite unable to see much that wasn’t swivelling round and round. She fetched a spade and I dug a hole, alternately yelping and fainting from the excruciating pain and bleeding all down the handle. I wouldn’t let her do it. I buried them between the lovely Anne Cocker rose and a pink grandiflora. Then
Janie got me stripped indoors and on the divan for a wash. I was all filth and blood.

‘You’re in a worse state than China, Lovejoy,’ Janie called from the alcove.

‘Your slang’s dated,’ I gave back. ‘Gives your age away.’

‘The doctor will go mad.’

‘Oh, him,’ I said.

I wasn’t up to repartee. For the first time In the entire business I was aware of the slightly disturbing fact that I was up against a madman. Nichole might be the sweetest woman on earth, but she sure as hell had no control over her tame lunatic.

It was beginning to look as if old Bexon’s find was as precious as he’d thought it was.

O
NCE UPON A
time, I was a virgin. No, honestly. A bit sweaty and newly hairy, but the real thing. You may remember how it was yourself. I exchanged it for a fob watch. A kindly lady pressed it on me (I mean the watch, folks, the watch) as I left her doorstep, fifteen years old but aged inexpressibly in an hour. She was thirty or so. I couldn’t help wondering at the time how someone so obviously senile (over twenty whole years of age!) was still managing to get about without a wheelchair, let alone sprint into my big seduction scene with such breathtaking relish. It was a fascinating business and preoccupied me for several hours, after which time I went back for a further lesson. I soon learned her moans were not exactly grief.

Other points also obsessed me. Despite having endured years of teaching to the contrary, 1 realized that women might actually like males. And I was one of that category. I began watching the sorts of things they did, to see what they really wanted as opposed to what they were supposed to want. I caught on. Women need to be used, to help. I was up against an arch villain in the form of Edward Rink. I needed help. I looked fondly at Janie as she pottered
about, and began to think clearly. It was about time I did.

As Janie got us both ready for bed I watched her every movement. She knew it. They always know when something’s on the boil.

Conviction came upon me like an avenging angel. Manton, Wilkinson and Dandy Jack couldn’t do anything about Rink. I could. The police would be all puzzled questions and no help. Therefore, Bexon’s find had to be rediscovered. Not by Edward Rink, but by Lovejoy. That would put the boot into Rink like nothing else on earth. I needed help urgently, until I got my hands back. And I needed money.

‘Janie?’ I said as she came in beside me that night.

‘Yes, love?’

‘Look, Janie . . .’

Ever noticed how time goes sometimes? You might think it’s all the same stuff, day in, day out. It’s not. If really does vary. Some minutes leave centuries of wear on you. Others don’t age you a second. I’ll bet you know the feeling.

That next week was a few aeons long. Janie got me the two latest
Time
editions. I usually read that when I can afford it because its punctuation cares. Incidentally, correct grammar’s a must for antique manuscripted letters and diaries, some of today’s soaring valuables. You can allow for spelling mistakes by the milliard, but grammar has to be impeccable. And grammar isn’t just using semicolons. If you suspect the genuine old letter which your best friend offers you (‘. . . actually signed by
her
! On real old-type paper!’) could be a forgery, try this test: even if you have no special knowledge of vegetable inks, papers, literary styles or script characteristics, just sit a moment and bother to read it. No cheating, start to
finish. Bad grammar or really neffie punctuation should make you think twice, modern education being what it is. This test has saved me more than once. Another tip’s the length of sentences. I’m not telling you any more or I’ll lose the thread.