The Shift of Numbers (16 page)

“Fancy a game of arrows
,
my boy?”
the
cherry bakewell
boomed, the lights flickering
momentarily over his head. Gordon looked on as he shambled into t
he light of the main bar, holding a smoulder
ing
pipe. Gordon
waited for the waves of panic to overcome him. The seconds ticked by. The pipe was lit and vast clouds of rancid sickly smoke engulfed him, each breath sucking it further inside him. After a minute, Gordon realised that he wasn’t afraid; there was no overwhelming urge to run, or even faint. Maybe it was the beer, he thought.

“I said
,
do you
s want a game of arrows?” The speech was broken, softened and slurred.

“What are you doing here?” a
sked Gordon evenly,
his
hand twitching ever so slightly.

“We’ve got plans to make,” c
ame the hollow, echoing response.

“I really don’t think we do,” Gordon
responded defiantly.

“Ain’t ya forgetting what I can do
,
boy
?” He took a step forward, unsteady on his feet.

“Beer not agreeing with you?” a
sked Gordon with a knowing smile. He reached behind the bar and pulled another pint into the same glass, then took a long swig.

“Not at all,” sitting on the nearest seat. “
I’s
fine.” The words
were
more slurred this time
,
with less edge.

Gordon finished the rest of his pint in several large gulps and poured another.
“Take a seat, will ya
,
boy?”

Gordon stood still.
“I’m
okay
over here. You want a drink?”

“Shut up and listen…”

“No
.
Y
ou
shut up and listen. I know who you are now, and I know that I’m going to get better… I’m not going to be anywhere near those chemicals anymore and that means, no more
you
,” p
ointing a finger.

“How’d you
knows that
, then?” h
e garbled.

“I just do… We are 1 and
the same, after all.”

“You
needs
me boy… Nothin
’
will ever get done. Mark my words.”

“You
’
r
e wrong.” Gordon watched as the old brown clothes
tried to get u
p out of the seat and failed, surprised by the weight of the
portly stomach and its ever-changing centre of gravity.

“I’ll be see
in
’
ya,” was all he could manage in reply.

“No you won’t,
” Gordon muttered under his breath as he turned to leave.

He didn’t feel comfortable any longer, like a story set up for great things but never being finished. The limbo he had created no longer existed. Everything changes and everything ends, sometimes not very well. But now he had moved to
o far forward to return. A
new chapter
had been
forced upon him, compelling him to let go of
his previous way of thinking. There was a
shifting of ideas and concepts. Existence was no longer a construct that he spent his time in
and got a minimum wage return. Instead, i
t was abound with possibilities. He smiled at Bill, snoring obliviously on the table, and
waved a last goodbye, for he
knew
now what the communist Santa Claus inside
him wanted to do.

"He becomes an appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired knack, that is required of him.”

Karl Marx

He had travelled 5 long miles with the estate agent, sat quietly, head against the window, like long trips taken with the family many years before. The journey was interrupted with constant injections of ve
rbosity from the estate agent, e
x
to
lling the virtues of living in the country, a quiet retreat away from peop
le. If Gordon had been listening
- in between coughing fits - he would have been sold already.

He perked up as the glorious coastline came into view
:
vast outcrops of rock with waves crashing at their base
; d
ark greens, pur
ples, browns and every shade in
between made up the gaps in the iron-grey landscape.

“Of course, all that turns a wonderful green in the hotter months.”

M
ajestic swathes of land reached
upwards at impo
ssible angles towards the sky, t
he tips surrounded in mist, like a higher power
was censoring their
beauty.

“Stop for a moment
.” H
e was infinitely grateful that the agent did. To his left, just out of the car window was another rocky outcrop. It was not very big but
,
at its base
,
was a body of water, so still, so reflective. It was indescribable, like a giant mirror. His eyes searched for a ripple to sp
oil the illusion but found none;
they ju
st disappeared into its depth. It was a
perfect thing, like a colossal mirror placed level upon the horizon line. No
,
he thought, a mirror wouldn’t be like that; perhaps if the lake were filled with mercury…but then it
s
s
plendour would only be passing, transitory beauty, while poison leaked into the land, leeching its disease
into soil and plant life.

“We should get going.
I can see you appreciate the outdoors. If this property doesn’t tingle you
r
taste buds, I have another similar
thin….”

Unable to shake the image
, Gordon
gazed back out
of
the window, the droning voice in his ear forcing him inwards. A man of property, I’m going to be
a man of property, how grown up, he thought.

“…
this
is the bridge that marks the beginning of the property. Everything on the island comes with the compound. Excuse the description, but that’s what the previous owners called it.” He jumped out
of
the car and unlocked a rusty iron gate that blocked their way, its disused hinges screeching in protest.

“Who were they?” asked Gordon when he returned to the car.

“They were erm… some of those religious types, more of a cult really. Worth saying up front, or you will only ask later on ‘why is there a giant cross on the lawn.’” The estate agent chortled.

“Why did they move out?”

“‘Move out’
might not
really
be the right choice of words, if you catch my drift.”

“What?”

“They passed the
ir evangelical expiry date.
”
This was accompanied by a
louder chortle.

“You
mean
?”

“Yep. Mass suicide.
About 12 years ago now.
W
hy do you think this place has been on the market for s
o long? And at this price too. T
he
y’
re practically
giving
it
away.” H
e shook his head in mock disbelief. “If you look to your right
,
you will see the highest point of the island. Lovely, yes?”

As Gordon digested the information that his dream could be built upon a mass grave
,
his eyes shifted to the right. Stretching upwards was a craggy hill with a thick patch of trees at its centre. What got his attention though was in the distance. Squinting down the road he could just about make out what looked like a giant woo
den fence. As they got closer, it
seemed to
resemble a military stockade. T
he estate agent remained silent while they drove u
p to the structure and parked
. They
exited the vehicle and walked
to the gateway.

“You will have no problems with security round here. Not with 8 foot high walls and this solid oak gate.”

“No
kidding
…” said Gordon under his breath.

“Before we go in, I have 3 words for you.” He looked Gordon in the eye with as much sincerity as he could muster. “Potential, potential, potential.”

He pulled out a giant key from his inside pocket with what looked like a dove carved into the big end. Gordon shook his head.

As the gate swung open
,
the full extent of the past became clear. In the centre sat a gravel courtyard surrounded by trees.  Dead and decaying leaves covered the martyred earth, swirling around in the stiff sea breeze. Nettles and spiny bushes blanketed most of the surrounding areas. In the middle stood a rusty iron monument about 7 feet tall. The
rivulets of congealed metal
made it di
fficult to fathom its origins. M
oss and mildew encircl
ed the base, creeping upwards, l
ike the earth was reclaiming lost property.

“Everyone asks,” t
he estate agent said
,
flatly. “It’s a likeness of the
prophet Harris. Y
ou can just make out the dove in his ou
tstretched hand. Useful though -
it used to be a water feature, so it’s already plumbed in.”

Leading off from the courtyard were 5 short paths, at the end of each, a house.  Directly opposite the ga
te stood the largest house. I
t used to be a pleasant
white
-
washed
affair with lots of large windows. Now grey with black grimy smudges running down the exterior, all the windows
were boarded up with damp wood, p
olice tape still clinging to the front door knob.

“This is the main house, possibly a 5 bedroom property.”

“What do you mean, possibly?” asked Gordon.

“Well… like I said on the phone. I’m not going to show you the inter
iors because there’s no point. T
he
y’
re all filled with rubble. This is an exciting project for the right person.”

The other 4 paths led off to smaller homes, about half the size of the main house. The 2 on the left of the courtyard were ruins, the roofs had collapsed inside and some of the w
alls had crumbled down, weather-
beaten by the elements. Those on the right had fared slightly better with 1 still retaining its roof.

“Interesting story behind these other houses,” said the esta
te agent with unrivalled enthus
iasm. “They are all
built from different materials;
something to do with the ascent of mankind I’m told.” He pointed to the ruin on the left. “That 1 is
made of mud, would you believe? T
he bricks are baked soil mixed with straw. The 1 next to it was made of wood. Those 2 on the other side are made of stone and concrete blocks. Funny how only the concrete 1’s survived, the least attractive of the 4.”

“What
’s the main house built from?” a
sked Gordon with genuine interest.

“Expensive brick - by the looks of it - with some sort of hi-tech insulated aluminium covering. Those dirty black marks are from the rubber beading, probably the only cheap stuff they used on the whole property. Watch this.” The estate agent walked up to the main house with Gordon following, pulled out a tissue, dipped it into a nearby puddle and wiped it vigorously over a small square on the wall.

“See, look at that.” He stood back and admired a perfectly white square. “You should look at rebuilds or demolition for the others but this 1 just needs a new interior. Follow me.”

They made their way round the back of the main house, fighting all the way with overgrown bushes and avoiding the nettles. They found the remains of an outdoor swimming pool filled almost to the top with thick putrefying liquid. “You might want to get a pr
ofessional cleaning company in,
”
t
he estate agent commented.

After some searching they found a path - or at le
ast a path of least resistance -
through a s
et of trees. Then Gordon saw it:
potential, potential and more potential.

Beyond the path, the ground sloped gently down to an enclosed beach flanked on either side by rocky outcrops, a miniature oasis of white sand. Beyond the beach - within swimming distance and joined by a path of large rocks - lay a small grass covered island with steep sides.
A path snaked its way around the
edge, corkscrewing its way to the top. Upon its flat peak, clearly visible, were 2 large stones - 1 on top of the other.

“Beautiful
, isn’t it?” t
he est
ate agent said, seemingly to
no-
one
in particular. “They used to do their worshi
p
p
ing up there. S
acrificing goats
,
I think it was.”

“I love it,” s
aid Gordon with wonder in his eye.

“You do?” e
xclaimed the estate
agent
suddenly, looking quickly at Gordon to see if he was joking. “You want to put in a bid?”

“What sort of figure am I looking at?”

“To be honest, and I really
am being honest, the lowest they will ac
cept is 1 point 4.” He looked earnestly at Gordon. “I
’m under instructions you see. I
t’s being sold as part of a last will and testament, at the behest of some distant relative. The lowest the will allows the land to go for is 1 point 4.”

“I’ll take it then,” said Gordon with a grin.

“
Really
? Thank you, thank you,
thank
you. I’m so sick of showing this place to people. I’m going to go to the car to make a phone call and then
I’m going to come right back. S
tay here, don’t move, I’ll get a pen.” He ran off
excitedly towards the main gate.
Gordon smiled and gazed out over his bay towards his island. The astonishing colours a
nd reflections of light bounced off the water into his eyes. H
e wondered if he would ever get bored of looking
at it. P
robably
, he thought
.
In the distance, atop the island,
he could just make out a shadowy
figure waving at him. As he squ
inted, the waving stopped
and the figure raised a thumb from
an outstretched arm.

That
same day
,
Gordon placed an ad, to run for 2 days
,
in 3
of the most popular newspapers:

T
h
i
n
k
for
a
moment…

What do
we
live for
?

We
the latent m
i
ll
io
ns with that
se
ed
of
prejud
ice

Who
decide
s what is
ri
g
ht
?

Who
among us wants to destroy that
s
e
e
d
of hatred within
ou
rs
el
ve
s
?

Who
wants
li
bera
ti
on
?

Har
d
work and
re
w
a
rd

The
re
war
d
s
self
sufficiency and natural
beauty
can o
f
f
e
r