The Hunt for Excalibur

1 Best Laid Plan

Over the course of the day, Court was feeling apprehensive. He had never done something like this before, but he really needed the money. It was Tuesday. Paul, his drinking buddy and instigator from the local pub, were working at the junk yard next to Hamish Auto Repair, where Court was a mechanic.

Both men had families, but Court had to take care of his wife, grandson and the child’s mother, since the boy’s mother could not take care of him by herself. Court and his wife thought it only fair to help out with young Brian, since the child’s father was Court’s son. It was sore to admit, but Court’s son had abandoned his child and girlfriend when he got the news of her pregnancy.

Court did not raise his boy that way, but his wife insisted that it was not their fault that their son turned wayward. Joe was a grown man and he had chosen his path, one of delinquency, destination regret. They just referred to Joe’s girlfriend as their daughter anyway, as she was close family, and more loyal than Joe, who was blood.

“You done with Dover’s diff work, mate?” Tony asked. Tony Hamish was Court’s boss only in name, the signature on Court’s checks. Other than that, the two middle-aged men had known each other since early high school at Queen’s Park and kept a close friendship. It was when Court was retrenched from his job at the ironworks that Hamish stepped in to offer his friend a job.

“Almost, Tone,” Court answered, his oil-stained face wincing under the hoisted up chassis of the Peugeot 406.

“Been taking a bit long on that, haven’t you? You alright, mate?” Hamish asked.

“Aye. No worries. My hands are just clumsy today, but I will get it done long before closing,” Court reported, lying to sound far more emotionally stable than he had been of late.

He could never tell his friend and employer about his personal problems, his wife’s illness and his mounting debt. Court was a proud Glasgow fighter, not some needy sorner, sponging on the charity of others. Another thing he was not was a criminal. Thus far, in his fifty years on the planet, Court Callany had never broken the law, save for the odd traffic fine.

That was why tonight’s plan had him scatterbrained all day long. Paul was to meet him after work and then they would start on rectifying their respective social situations. Court did not know Paul’s true circumstances, and neither did he care, but he knew that Paul had a solution lined up and that was more than what Court could ever accomplish. He was definitely not much in the way of a planner or executer, but with Paul’s ‘sure thing’, it was worth a try. If the plan worked, he was looking at a substantial amount of money with which he would be able to plug the leaks in his life.

The smell of oil and rubber filled his nostrils as his greasy hands fumbled at the bolts of the car’s differential. It was the smell of his second home. He loved fixing cars, but it was simply not enough to make ends meet. Tonight he would be introduced to a new kind of employment, if the term could be applied to what Paul from the Pub had planned.

Several customers had come to collect their cars already, as closing time drew nearer. Wiping his hands on one of his dirty cloths, Court stood upright to stretch out his back. On the other side of the fence, he saw Paul. He was quite hideous to look at. Greasy hair clung to his head in long straight streaks, enveloping a face that had seen better years. Wrinkles sank deep into his skin and his thin lips covered rotten teeth that repelled anyone he smiled at.

It was unclear to the Court if Paul had done this kind of thing before, but by the looks of him, even back in high school, it was not too farfetched to believe. Sure enough, he sounded as if he knew what to do, and unfortunately that was all Court could count on. The two men nodded at one another in acknowledgement, and carried on with their work. Tony Hamish came marching from the office to talk to Court, looking a bit awkward in the face.

“Erm, listen, Court,” he started, casting his eyes down to the messy floor. “Just got a call from Connor, and he said he is held up in a meeting. He will collect the car at 6.30, if you do not mind.”

Flabbergasted, Court’s wringing hands hastened in the cloth. “But we close at six.”

“I know that, Court,” Hamish said in an irate tone, “but he is a regular customer and I am sure you can stay thirty minutes later to wait for him?”

“Why can you not wait for him?” Court asked. “I have a meeting after work.”

Hamish smiled amusedly. “What, at the pub?”

“No,” Court retorted in frustration. “Believe it or not, Tone, I have a life after work, you know.”

His boss pulled back visibly, mocking his employee. “I am so sorry, Mr. Callany, but without this job you would have neither, would you now?”

Court had to concede that it was true. He had to be grateful that he had a job, even with unexpected sacrifices such as these, but what he could not tell Hamish, was that his time after work was reserved for something on the other side of legal. He nodded in defeat, looking at the dirt on his hands as he saw the cruel irony in it. Throughout his life, he always found himself trying to wipe away the dirt and grime, using a fouled rag. It was the epitome of his existence to try fixing problem by creating other problems. There it was, always wiping dirt off with more dirt, only bringing forth a different manner of pollution.

“Aye,” a subdued sound escaped him as he looked at the cloth in his hands. “I will be here.”

“Good. Thank you, Court. I really do appreciate it, mate,” his boss smiled, patting him on the shoulder before walking away.

Court was a bit of a superstitious man. His family had a strong Gypsy streak and he was raised with tall tales of curses and fate, even though he had become good enough at hiding it from his wife and children.

‘It is a sign, Court,’ his inner self insisted. ‘You are not supposed to go tonight, otherwise this client would not have run late to keep you here. Don’t go!’

He regarded the wall clock in the work area. It was nearing closing time and soon Paul would be here to meet up with him. What would he tell Paul? Should he lie, he wondered, or should he ignore the warning in the circumstances? To distract him from the moral, and superstitious, debate, Court proceeded to finish the last work and cleaned up. By the time he was finished, it was just past 6 p.m.

“Thanks again, mate! Have a good night!” Tony Hamish called from the door, car keys in hand.

“Bye-ya!” Court attempted a smile, but it went unnoticed as Hamish’ back was already turned to unlock his car and go home. Court looked over to the junkyard. The ragged steel plated gates were gathered roughly at the middle by an old chain and padlock, creaking in the Glasgow gusts. No greater melancholy had ever befallen Court Callany as this plague of worry and loneliness, as he stood dead still in the middle of the workshop, smelling the grime and smoke from outside. Torn between his struggle and a criminal solution to his problems, he tried to make a choice. He had until 6.30 p.m to decide what he was going to do.

By the time the clock reached a quarter past six, he was convinced that Paul was just as reluctant as he, and had probably left for home as well by now. Actually, the thought of being jilted, of having the pub lads laughing at his expense for taking Paul seriously, was a great relief. Even with the rising winds outside, the clatter of the electric roller door at the back was substantial. Court turned to see what caused the noise, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The darkness in the workshop was soothing and safe, as opposed to the cruel world outside where nobody gave a damn about anyone else. Out there, people were left to fight for their lives and well-being while vultures drained them dry without an ounce of guilt. He zoned out to utilize the solitude to the full for the short while he was left in the bliss of it, not to have to answer, not to have to respond or choose, but just to exist in silent harmony.

Suddenly the back roller door clanged in a great din of metallic chaos, sending poor Court into a near coma from fright. It stopped abruptly, but as he stared wide-eyed at the door, it started again. From the other side he heard Paul’s voice, “Oi, mate! Are you still in there? I see your car is still here!”

“Aye, just hang on a minute!” Court shouted. His voice was frail and disappointed, but Paul reckoned it was on account of the fright he just gave the man. “I just have to open the doors.”

“Why haven’t you come over like we discussed?” Paul asked from outside. The doors rolled up, giving Court a gradual upward revelation of the man he had hoped had gone home. Court prepared for his expression to look indifferent, so that his accomplice would not catch on to his distress.

“My boss asked me to wait for this bloke to pick up his car,” Court explained, throwing a thumb back at the newly repaired vehicle. “Won’t be two ticks and we can be out of here, alright?”

Paul nodded, looking around the place and checking outside if someone was stalking there. Situations like these made him nervous, where plans got changed because of some random event that quickly came up. It was highly suspicious, especially since Court Callany was not the type of man who would even forfeit on a coin for charity. With his hands in his pockets, Paul sauntered round the back of the building, pretending to just be curious, while he was surveying the place for possible police intervention.

“What is the matter?” cried Court from the roller door.

“Just looking around, mate. I have never been in this yard before, so wanted to see what is here, you know? Just nosy, I suppose,” he fibbed.

“What is here?” Court frowned at the openly wrong statement. To him it sounded as if Paul was scouting for stuff to steal, but he dared not say so. “Well, come inside. I don’t want people to think we are still open with my car still parked out front and you waltzing around in the yard. I am wasting enough time waiting for this client running late.”

He had expected Paul to reply in some hostile fashion, as was fitting of his streetfighter, crack addict look, but he was surprised when the scurvy man obeyed. Paul slipped into the dark garage and checked out the Peugeot that was waiting for its owner.

“French shit,” Paul remarked while Court stood, arms folded against the wall mounted tool cupboards. He ran his finger along the car’s hatch. “Where is this bloke from?”

Court shrugged. “Don’t know. I just fix them. I do not get warm and fuzzy with them.”

Paul’s face exhibited an annoyed streak as he leered at Court. “Do you want to do this or not? Just tell me, aw-right? ‘Cause, I don’t have all bloody night to sit here babysitting with you because you are too fucking nice to do this.”

“I am doing it, okay? Jaysus! I cannae help what my boss tells me to do, or I will be out on me ear again, for Christ’s sake!” Court yelled, relishing the freedom of unloading his thoughts for once.

Outside someone called out, but they could not ascertain the nature of the visit. Paul pulled out his gun and pointed it at Court. “If it is the coppers, you are a dead man.”