Moonspender (5 page)

But anyone with half an eye could suss George out as a harmless,
tinkering bloke good as gold. We chatted. I sang. He stayed, and stayed. I was
frying us both some tomatoes and bread when I suddenly realized two things: It
was eleven o'clock, and George was terrified. I goaded my irate neurons into action.
They decided something else was odd. George hadn't explained why he'd come.

"Here, George," I said. "Anything I can do for
you?"

"No, Lovejoy. Thanks." He gave a ghastly grin.
"Only, I was mending Sandy's electrics and forgot the time. That's why I
dropped in."

Sandy and Mel I've already mentioned. They live in our village,
and are rich, aggressive dealers. Nowt as queer as folk, my old gran used to
say.

"To wait for the bus, eh?" Mel and Sandy are also famous
for not giving people lifts in their fantastic battleship of a car.
"Sorry, George. My crate's off the road at present." The ancient
ruby, corrosive sublimate of motor, was dwindling into oxides among the
foliage—a disagreement with the authorities.

"I saw."

Odd. Only then did I concentrate and actually examine George's
features. In my drunken state I'd not noticed, but now I saw the
symptomatology: the sweat, tremors, the quick glances. Even as he spoke he
leapt out of his skin because of a snuffling at the door.

"For Christ's sake, George. It's only the hedgehog."

Crispin stood there blinking while I went to make its pobs, bread
in milk. It has its own saucer. Soon he'd start screaming at night along my
autumn hedge, a horrible scary cry to show that he's packing up for the year.
George stared fearfully into the dark night, while Crispin slurped his
nocturnal calories and gave me reproachful glances. He isn't used to slow
service caused by trembling visitors. Narked, I bent down and showed it my
fist. "I want no criticism from you, chiseler," I threatened. Mother
Nature really irks me. All she does is breed scroungers, then sends them round
to me for alms. It's basically bad organization. One of these days I'll send
the whole frigging lot packing. "If it isn't you it's the bloody birds
hammering on the window," I grumbled. Crispin slurped the last and left,
pink feet high-stepping aloofly into the night. No wonder I'm bitter. Dignity
comes easy, on other people's graft.

"It's the dark, George, eh?"

"Yes." He unwound slightly as the door closed, and gave
me a feeble grin. "I was always terrified, right from a kiddie."

That night he slept on my floor, a blanket and cushion job. And
went off right as rain in the morning, noshing fried tomatoes and marching out
for the first bus. I watched him go from my porch, gave him a wave. Nothing
wrong with having a phobia, as long as you keep quiet about it.

That's what I meant about George not being a lover of
night-walking. Maybe he'd had some premonition? A daft thought, really, because
I'm determined not to believe in hunches and all that. Real life's trouble
enough.

So, the morning after my epic television drama, aiming to keep
that ten o'clock appointment, I was plodding between the mathematical white
fences of Dogpits Farm while horses raised heads and belligerently stared me
down. The house grew lovelier with every plod, a resplendent black and white
Tudor voyager among modernity. I wondered hopefully how the lady in residence
would take a proposal of marriage from a scruff like me.

Then this bloke came galloping at me on a horse the size of an
elephant, intending to whip me, while a bonny mounted girl nearby laughed
admiringly. Served me right for daydreaming.

4

Well, I wasn't having that. The first I realized of the assault
was a thudding of hooves, and this giant horse was charging directly at me with
a mounted idiot whooping like a maniac. In panic I fled and crawled under the
nearest fence—faster than most people leap—and started sprinting across a
field. The maniac leapt the obstruction—I'd forgotten that horses were natural
jumpers—and came thundering after me. Instinctively as the bloody nag hoofed
closer I made my dash curve, ever tighter, so the mad cavalry floundered to
regain direction. Then I was off",
straightlining
to a distant hedge. Of course it wasn't all athletics. I was also screaming
explanations about being invited to call for a job, and begging in terror,
anything, but it was no use. The frigging lunatic kept coming, and the acreage
grew wider and me more knackered with pain in my chest and side from exercise.
And a bit of fear.

A cheering noise sounded, but it might have been my ears roaring.
Maybe the blond girl had friends. Third rush I glanced, terrified, to check her
distance, but she was only circling at a genteel trot and calling, "Go on,
Christopher," and this goon shouting tally-hos and similar intellectual
expletives.

I ducked and weaved, then snatched up a great tuft of grass as the
creature crashed past the fourth time. My neck got a lash from the nutter, but
it was cheap at the price. As he hauled on the animal's gears

I wheezed after them, my legs trembling. The beast turned to find
me crouched there. I leapt skyward with a howl and hurled my tuft, shedding
black soil, into the bloody thing's face. It reared and the bloke went over.
I'd actually started a last desperate sprint before I realized it wasn't coming
any more. It trotted off, looking quite jovial, tail up and snorting. Our hero
lay there, winded. My ribs burned. A hand fell on my shoulder.

"You're under arrest, Lovejoy."

"Me?" Even that word took three labored inspirations. It
was Geoffrey, vigilant constable of our parish, in his size twenty-one boots
and posh uniform. "
Whafor
?"

"Assault," he said proudly.

"Don't-be-bloody-silly, Geoffrey," I panted.

That cheering noise had changed. It was now a chorus of booing, of
all sounds my least favorite. Astonished, I looked round. A crowd— honest, a
real mob—of people thronged the road beyond the hedge. They carried placards
and banners full of exhortation. I didn't bother to look any more; I've never
read an intelligible banner yet. To my surprise I spotted a familiar face among
the mob. Podge Howarth? Out here?

"Hang on, Geoffrey," I said.

This hulking great huntsman was hauling himself to his feet as I
stepped up and booted him in the crotch. He doubled with a
whoomph
that nearly blew Geoffrey's helmet off. The distant boos turned to thunderous
applause.

"Here, Lovejoy. Stop that," Geoffrey commanded. I eyed
the horse with hate. Jauntily it eyed me back. I decided to abandon ball-kicking
while I was ahead.

"He tried to kill me, Geoffrey," I explained. "I
want him arrested." I decided to snap the goon's whip in a grandiloquent
gesture for encore, but the whip wouldn't break. All it did was bend. I felt a
duckegg and hoped nobody noticed.

"Come quietly, Lovejoy. Don't give me all this aggro."
Geoffrey led me off while this bird on her white nag pounded up and demanded
why I wasn't being hanged from the nearest tree.

"I've arrested him, miss," Geoffrey said respectfully.
"This felon is now in custody."

Felon? Whacked and bewildered as I was, I couldn't help using up
my few remaining kilojoules in an amazed stare. I'll bet anybody a quid that
Geoffrey doesn't even know what a felon is.

"He kicked Major Bentham," pronounced this mounted
Valkyrie.

The crowd's cheers became jeers. A chant of "No, no,
no!" began. My day suddenly brightened.

"I assaulted nobody, did I?" I yelled.

"No, no, 
no!

No wonder there are goons everywhere these days. The feeling's
really great. You can say anything, even gibberish, and still emerge president
with the World Bank hanging on every belch.

Fist aloft, I bawled, "
Nidginovgorod
yeah!" and unbelievably got a "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" ripping the
clouds over the brook where Tacitus himself had sat and bathed his feet. I
thought, I don't believe this world any more. Maybe I'm a throwback, or a
sport. At least I would have thought that, except nowadays you've to say
heterozygous recessive mutant or some such. . . . Oh, Christ. A large black
saloon car was pulling in by the hedge.

A somber man emerged, lighting his pipe. Between flashes and puffs
he glanced over to our weird scenario, and beckoned. I plodded over, Geoffrey
coming with that head-lowering pose of the superseded bobby.

"Wotcher, Ledger."

He wafted his match out, chin raised like a stag sniffing fire.
"Lovejoy. What're you doing booting the local gentry?"

"I'm here by invitation. Tinker gave me a message for ten
o'clock, the lady of the house."

"Nothing to do with fox-hunting?"

"Eh?" I turned to inspect the immediate universe. The
chanting mob was now walking along the road, placards everywhere. A hairy bloke
was pouring stuff on the ground. Athletic-looking men stripped for marathon
running were scuffing their shoes in the mess. The penny dropped. They were preparing
good old aniseed porridge, which harriers would stamp all over the countryside
to mislead hounds. "Not today. Ledger. I've read all the quotations."
Nobody was going to call me unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable.

He actually nearly virtually smiled. Almost. "The major
must've thought you were a protester."

"He should have asked." I eyed him with curiosity.
"Here, Ledger. You're around a lot these days, aren't you? For a corporal,
I mean."

Amazingly he was amused. "Now, lad," he said benignly.

"No, seriously. Fox hunts on your beat, are they?"

"Ledger!" the
hooliganess
screamed, deprived of her arena massacre. "I demand—"

"Says he's here by invitation, lady." To his credit
Ledger didn't give ground as she kicked her horse closer. Calmly he struck a
match on his coat, to my unbounded admiration, and the beast nervously edged
off. The bird lashed the poor thing, furious. It skittered, eyes whitening in
worry. I really felt sorry for it. We losers share empathy. "Miss
Can-dice, meet Lovejoy. He's unscrupulous, a consort of thieves, and in my view
certifiably insane."

Civilization waited. Then, "Lovejoy?" she said.

"How do," I said, still trying to be friends.

Ledger swiveled to point at the big house. He'd made up his mind.
"Up that footpath, Lovejoy, you'll see signs To The Restaurant. The
lady'll
be there."

"You sure. Ledger?" I asked. "Only, that silly
sod—"

Ledger didn't even glance at the major, who was hunching his slow
way along the fenced drive, a paradigm for us all. "The constable will
accompany you to ensure your safe arrival, Lovejoy."

"Am I still under arrest. Ledger?"

"You misunderstood the constable's phraseology," Ledger
said, getting in his car. The police have this knack of losing
responsibilities. "Call in sometime. I'd like a chat. 'Morning." He
was tipping his hat as the police driver left us a cloud of pollutant. The slur
was unmistakable. Miss Candice glared at me. I shrugged, carefully keeping
Geoffrey's stolid mass between the bird and me, and went over to Podge Howarth,
who obviously felt sheepish being spotted among this lot.

"Wotcher, Podge," I said blithely. "Ta for helping
me when the Cossacks came." A number of protesters grinned and slapped my
shoulders admiringly. A gray-eyed girl in camp-follower attire—shredded jeans,
dirty pullover knitted from wholemeal, bark sandals—kissed me and awarded me
some poor flower she'd dragged from its bed in the interests of conversation. A
button-badge begged Call Me Enid!

"Wotcher, Lovejoy. Didn't know it was you or I'd have—"

"Oh, aye." I kept pace with his trudging circle. Finding
him among a mob of peace-loving
proearth
antihunt
protesters is like a frog in fruit— something with
no immediate explanation. I mean, I don't care for hunting either, because I
always feel like the fox, never the hunter. But that doesn't set me off
rioting, usually because I'm being hunted elsewhere. Now, Podge is a laugh. He
makes Roman bronze door keys, always has scores buried in his little garden
aging. With the soft bronze he uses—his cousin's a Birmingham car dealer—a
lovely antique-looking patina takes about a year to develop in a good (meaning
bad) summer. A dry hot midyear like we'd just had is murder to a bronze forger.
"Look, Podge," I said. "What's going on? The whole Eastern
Hundreds're
going frigging barmy."

He became even shiftier. "Dunno, Lovejoy."

Puzzled, I halted to inspect the demonstration. You can tell when
a bloke's following a bird, can't you. Nodding and beaming as they
trogged
, I watched them once round to make sure there was
no married lady whose eyes wavered in guilt. Was Podge Howarth littering our
countryside for sordid sex, or something nearer to his avaricious heart? Yes,
he was grinning fatuously at the gray-eyed flower-giver Enid, and her with a
wedding ring. Tut-tut. Satisfied, I turned to my police escort.

"Right, Geoffrey," I said resignedly. "Fancy a
walk?"

Me and Geoffrey went up the path chatting about my fellow villager
Raymond, currently on remand for trying to pull the old fiddle trick with a
piece of early Wedgwood.