Gold By Gemini

CHAPTER X

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ON THE WAY BACK I called in at Ruffler's bakery, four meat-and-potato pasties and two flour cakes. It's very interesting being poor at this level. You'd think that you'd start buying foods again in exactly the reverse order you gave them up. It's not true. For example, I'd not tasted butter or margarine for four months at the cottage. And here I was with a few quid, splashing out on a quarter of marge and a pot of honey.

Big spender. For sheer erg value I bought a dozen eggs, a tin of powdered milk and a slab of Lancashire cheese the size of a Queen Anne escritoire. Manton and Wilkinson had seed forever so I got two loaves, a cob and a farmhouse. That made a hell of a hole in Squaddie's few quid. I dithered about a tin of corned beef and a custard but decided not to go mad. My belly would be shocked enough as it was. I bought tinned sausages and salad cream for Henry.

I felt so proud having a proper tea. You do, don't you? Even got my tablecloth out and laid it. It's Victorian embroidered white linen, lovely. White-on-white's stylish needlework, but hell to iron. (Tip: use an old non-electric flat-iron. Don't think that electric's always right just because it's easy.) I washed the cutlery and found a napkin from somewhere. My Indian bone-and-rosewood inlaid teatray made everything look really sophisticated. If anyone had come in they'd have thought how homely it all was.

Funny how a person's mind works. I put the margarine and honey in a prominent position so they could be seen clearly by unexpected visitors. They'd think it was routine. To reinforce the image I put both loaves and the flour cakes on show. The message for the casual observer: that Lovejoy lives really well, always a choice of bread. I had two pasties, hotted up. The others went away for the morrow.

As I stoked up even my old table manners returned. No elbows on the table, knife and fork demurely parallel. I was charming, and not a little narked nobody came to witness the exhibition.

That done, I went to see Manton and Wilkinson. Darkness was about to fall on the valley. From the cottage you can see the lights along the Lexton village road some four miles away. There's a cluster of cottages, the river and the railway about a mile closer.

At dusk it's quite pretty, but coolish and always misty. A faint foggish air drifts in from the estuary, slow and rather ominous sometimes. That makes the lights gleam prettily for a few minutes. Then you notice the cold dankness hanging to cut off the last of the valley's dusk, and the day has ended. The night is a swamp through which sounds fail to carry. Trees loom wider and hedges crowd close. And my phone was dead of non-payment from today.

I told Manton and Wilkinson goodnight. 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 motor-cycle. 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 motor-bike 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.