Authors: H Ryder
Chapter thirty-three, Monday
:
4thnovember2013, mine
With the two would -be assailants tied securely, remember we’ve all watched too many old Batman cartoons where they always escape, to do a poor job with our prisoners knots, we sit exhausted in silence for a while. They are propped up against a wall sitting together, both still unconscious with very tidy impossible to escape from Boy Scout knots tied by the ex-special forces, and ex-Batman lovers. We search the house to make sure they don’t have any help with them, we probably should have done this before now, but dear reader, we didn’t, we needed tea. Satisfied that we have the situation under control we sit in the living room at high tea. Thankful and still a little in shock from what we just did, we sit in silence sipping like all that’s missing are cucumber sandwiches on a tiered plate rack with a handle. It would be a comedy moment if we didn’t have prisoners sitting in there with us. I suddenly remember seeing such a tiered plate rack in the kitchen, what
is
this place? And are there fondant fancies in the cupboard? Hope so.
Almost to myself as I sip hot refreshing tea “the house hasn't been slept in.” I dunk a ginger nut biscuit, “wherever these villains are based, it isn’t here.” I top up everyone’s teacups to positive murmurs all-round, “it’s immaculate.” I gesticulate with half a soggy biscuit, “the beds are made there's Jo Malone grapefruit candles everywhere,” my favourite. I buff the cushion I’m sitting against. “The washing up is all done and dry on the wooden rack drainer.” I notice practically. “It's like there were inhabitants, and they just popped out to the shops.”
Maybe they have? Wondering how far away the shops must be, and suddenly worrying there's nowhere for them to buy decent denim, well trust me.
“Biscuit anyone?” I say drinking from a bone china cup with saucer, “and they like their tea,” whoever lives here. “There’s five different blends out there in the kitchen, several teapots and matching china set,” I look down into the swirling steam that’s my tea, “no chipped mugs here.” I notice out loud.
“Ha!” From Kurt almost spitting out some tea, “Mum would be happy, she loathes mugs.” laughs Kurt, and Daniel confirms with a nod, but says nothing.
“I’ll go for a rummage in the library” adds Nigel, “you coming Dr Cartier?” Liza nods an emphatic yes, she clearly can’t wait to get her hands on a project that takes her out of the room, with live bound reminders of our welcome party slouched messily on the floor. And smelling like a wet goat.
It seems important to note here, I have never actually smelled a goat that's been out in the rain, I merely guess that it's like a wet dog, but outdoorsier.
“More tea?” I offer the pot around in mock-tea party poshness. Nodding all-round, “a level of discernment, so rare today.” Daniel giggles extending his little finger out holding his cup in a pastiche of a imagined royal, and suddenly this is the funniest scene in the world.
“This has Dad’s hand all over it you know.” Kurt says drinking deeply from his steaming cup not lifting his eyes to meet Daniels, just lifting his brows. Daniel is looking around the room nodding, exchanging the odd glance with Kurt, like close siblings who can often read each other’s thoughts. He looks comfortable here, perhaps there’s something familiar, a feeling maybe. I can sense it.
Stan comes in from the back of the house, “there’s another Landrover out there” he tells me because he knows I love Landrovers, “the source of the explosive smell.” He wipes his hands on a tea-towel, one with a Delia cupcake recipe on it. “Someone has detonated a device under it and blown it into an almost unrecognisable heap of parts” he pauses. “But Landy's are tough and their official parts are branded and numbered, and the decal endured,” as he wipes, wringing his fingers over and over, “it belonged to your family Daniel” He looks up, “I’ve had the VIN number checked.”
Daniel and Kurt pause mid slurp, paused cups mid-air, thinking, something has clicked in their heads, they are now quiet. “Yes, we know.” whispers Daniel
TC: “Awkward” are you there? Please say yes.
PF: “I’m here, what’s going on?” That was quick.
TC: “I think Liza might be falling for Daniels older Brother” can you imagine the scene around the table at Xmas?
PF: “Have to say, I’m quite enjoying my own Pearce boy right now too” shameful.
TC: “Wish I was, it’s like Pony Club Camp here without the ponies, and too many grown-ups” can you imagine?
PF: “Can't you get him alone for twenty minutes?” If only, change the subject quickly.
TC: “Where the bloody hell are you anyway?” Answer me.
PF: “Messy subject change, we’ll speak about that later, have no idea where we are, but it’s fun” glad for her.
TC: “Every detail please, when we meet” and I mean every detail.
Back in the room there’s mumbling between the brothers, Daniel finally admits, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?” He asks his Brother.
“I’m trying not to Danny.” He rolls his eyes. Silence, if you could hear brains working there’d be a room of gentle ticking noises and soft whirring, as we decrypt the puzzle. They look around the room we sit in.
“That Dad didn’t perish under that mountain,” he pauses for effect, “he escaped and lived here.” Makes sense.
Stan steps forward clearing his throat for effect, “yes, yes, to keep you all away from the harm” he says. “He knew trouble would rain down on you when you discovered what your tattoos meant.” He looks at the two boys, waiting for a reaction to this news, which Stan knew all along.
“This is unbelievable,” from Liza, emerging from the library clutching a heavily bound leather book, reading to herself. Everyone looks up at her, but it’s not her revelation they are wondering about, she's just the focal point for their thinking. She stops just as she’s about to say something and stays still and quiet.
Stan continues, “he knew you’d come searching, people want that idol,” he looks over at the bodies strung up like a joint of beef ready for roasting, I shudder at the thought. “Your Dad was protecting you.” Stan says as if that’s the end of the story nothing more to say, and goes back to checking his equipment like nothing's happened.
“From Steffi and Emilio?” Daniel looks at me questioningly because maybe I could sense the answer.
“From that family, going back years.” Adds Stan kneeling by his rucksack rummaging about in it, is he really looking for something or is it a distraction?
“It all seems so unbelievable,” adds Nigel following Liza from the neatly stuffed bookcases, he fails to sense any conversation in progress, so blasts away with his own discovery. “Such a complex series of puzzle pieces,” he says to the room in general, not looking up from the hefty volume cradled across his forearm with reverence. “What were the chances anyone would have discovered the gold idol?” He shakes his head at the text, his glasses slip to the end of his nose, pushing them back onto his face he adds “zero chance I’d say.” And finally looking up he notices all eyes on him, wondering what he is rattling about.
Sensing he has everyone’s attention finally, and making a point about good comedy he removes his glasses slowly and cleans them on his handkerchief, we now can't wait to hear what he’s going to say, that’s the art of timing, he should have been in the theatre. “This is an old family thing obviously,” he slips his glasses back on his face, blinking a few times to make sure the lenses are clear. “It all started long ago when the original discoverer of the box.” He looks back down at the book, and gently closes it up with a slight ‘poof’ sound of escaping air between the leaves. “Your ancestor Daniel” he sits down, turning his head, “and Kurt,” and next he's dunking a rich tea in his teacup.
Nigel continues, “Kurt,” he makes a point with his biscuit, “he hid the box containing the golden sacred eagle under this mountain,” he sips from his cup, makes a face because it’s luke warm by now. “But another knew where he hid it, and I expect these here,” pointing his tea at the tied bodies, “are from that family or knew the stories of that family.” He takes a large gulp of cold tea just as I offer the pot to top it up, and reaches for a biscuit, “every family has histories and secrets that are passed down.” He lifts his cup to the teapot, “otherwise I’d be out of a job.”
Obvious really.
Taking in what Nigel has said we all pay attention, “my family for example” Nigel says, “has a recipe for bread pudding that’s not allowed outside the family.” We all laugh nervously, but we are calm because bread pudding is very important to some people. “My Mother died with that sweet secret intact.” He smiles to himself obviously remembering his Mum, “it wasn’t even that good” he giggles.
Note to self, get Grandads
’ bread pudding recipe from Mum, which really
was
good.
“So let me get this straight” opens up Kurt. This doesn’t sound like a bread pudding question so I endeavour to pay close attention, until I deem it boring. Then I’ll make more tea. As he slides his weight to perch on the edge of the sofa, his body language receptive and open to dialogue, “the man that came ashore with our ancestor.” He gesticulates with a roll of his hand in the air as if to demonstrate there's a long story to unfold, “he must have followed him into the mountain.” Takes a bite of a dunked ginger nut, “discovered where he hid the treasure?” Jabs the air with the final half-moon of biscuit, “and planted markers so he could find it again?” A question, not a statement.
Just then a crushing sound, and our grapefruit scented air is disturbed by the swift movement of people to the window. We hear a vehicle pulling up and stopping hard into the dirt with a skidding screech of sand and dirt in friction. Shooting a look outside we see what’s emerging from the swirl of disturbed dust, we can hear something happening, a door slamming, a shuffling and a crunching on the path outside. The door flies open and a wide, a dirty looking Spaniard strides in like he owns the place paying more attention to his phone than the room he has entered into.
Yep, I think to myself, bloody phones, they take over your life don't they? Bet it's his Mother!
“Tried calling why....?” His sentence cut off mid-flow by the sight that meets him, he’s slow to react, his eyebrows raise before his voice makes another sound.
Enter at C working trot.
Does he notice us all sitting there drinking tea, like the Queen will make an appearance? It would have been comical if he didn’t have an angry snarling expression, a physique that almost completely fills the doorway and a fucking massive gun strapped to his belt. He looks down at the unconscious tied forms on the floor, then back at us. Waiting for a reaction, for anything, we're paused, all of us. I take a serene comedy bite from my sandwich like I’m watching a movie and clearly enjoying myself, my eyes fixed at one place, on the face of the man in the doorway. Ugly, big, unclean and tall. What is it with lack of personal hygiene and an aversion to laundry out here?
“He's slow isn't he?” Says Kurt out loud sitting comfortably back on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, his ankle resting over his knee. But just as he does the man reaches for a gun stuffed in the back waistband of his jeans, ignoring the obvious weapon, perhaps that one isn’t loaded? I glance out of the window, at the Jeep parked untidily outside, then back at the man, most unpleasant to look at, wrong car too. He manages after several silent seconds have passed, to take control of himself and utter a question, “what’s going on here?” Shouldn't that be our question?
I am sorely tempted to offer him tea and a sandwich, because it's polite, but restrain myself perhaps now’s not the time for a comedic interlude. Though he deserves the sarcasm I am proud of myself for holding my tongue, it doesn’t happen very often, Mum would be proud. She wouldn't be happy about this scene though, his shirt hasn't been ironed. And she'd certainly have comments about his outfit being tardy and his hair needing cutting. She wouldn’t be wrong either. His eyes betray him, he’s confused and out of control but tries to hide it behind a fistful of steel pointing wildly around the room “
who are you
?” Jabbing the barrels into the air.
He shoves the gun in our general direction clearly he doesn’t know what to do at this point, unable to think on his feet. Slow minded, he’s trying to decide which of us poses the biggest threat, bet he gets it wrong too. He needs a gang, bet he was a bully at school. His plan to intimidate us, but we're all too tired to play along. I dunk a biscuit into my tea and take a bite as if to ignore his rudeness, disturbing tea time should be a capital offence my head is telling me, and this enrages him further.
He clearly can’t decide which of us gets the pointy end, and to be fair he’d likely get any guess wrong because in this motley group, appearances are most certainly deceptive. But he braves to speak, “what have you done to them?” He demands shouting with a hint of Hispanic accent, points the gun, jabbing it in turn to everyone in the room. Hearing all the commotion Steffi begins to come around and mumbles groggily. We don’t hear what she says, the big man torn between holding us up and helping his fellow comrades.
Then we hear it, “Dad?” Her eyes still shut and a little puffy from the giant slap around the face I gave her as she tried to disturb tea-time with her bad language, well deserved. Through her puffy lip we can hear the words, “what’s going on,” she tilts her head to the side, likely to relieve the tension from being in the same position for some time, again, well deserved. “What’s all the shouting?” She pulls at the ropes binding her not understanding, and flinching at the obvious sharp pain in her side, why her arms and legs won’t respond to her commands, “why can’t I move?” We all sit there motionless, as the man gets more and more angry, his face visibly fills with blood and gets very red. Our collective faces following the conversation from one person to another like a tennis match. Quite entertaining actually.