Cloud Cuckoo Land Page 21

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ian liked to think that he was a good judge of character, that he could read the average punter like that ‘open book’. But these days one thing was certain, what he could not do was have any idea at all of himself. A numbing rage had blossomed inside his head, blurring his faculties of self-reflection. In any case, he had never been a benign soul, he desired conflict in even the simplest social situation and now there were these added difficulties. Now his bullish sub-characteristics were taking over and the dominant urge was to give in to it, let himself go more completely than ever before. It was way too late in the day now, to do anything else.

  So, by Ian’s reckoning, bad habits were good for you; they were a harmless and pleasurable indulgence, an important part of pain management. And wasn’t it true that he had been warming to this idea of murder? It was his latest craze, it was the only thing which could take the sting out of his own impending demise.

  ◊

  Kernmantel climbing rope has a braided sheath and a plaited core of parallel fibres, it was Ian’s most favourite tying rope, an exhibition rope really. The outer sheath was designed to resist abrasion, whereas the core material was chosen for strength and elasticity. For complex tying, Ian liked to use two different coloured ropes, because then it was a lot easier to follow what each cord was actually doing within the knot. He had a two-metre length of blood-red and the other was emerald green.

  Ian had spent most of his afternoon practising the Zeppelin bend, a dependable, symmetrical knot that the US Navy at one time employed to tether their ‘lighter than air’-ships. It was a simple concept; basically two interlocking overhand knots were blocked against each other. It was a beautiful thing to see lying there in his lap and when he was sure that he’d tied one or two absolutely perfectly, he turned to other business.

  His apartment was a mess. Scattered clothes had been kicked into the corners, his cast-off slippers were lying alone in the middle of the room. A trail of biscuit wrappers and coffee cups had to be collected and a deep and whitening layer of dust which had built up on all of the horizontal surfaces, had to be cleaned off.

  By six o’clock he’d hoovered, polished, showered himself and aired the flat; he’d yanked up two good fistfuls of daffodils from the communal gardens and stuck them into a cut-glass jug. It took a while to find the right place for them, but eventually he decided on the folding leaf table, in front of the lounge window. The curtains blew in and stirred around the flowers, which lent a kind of localised drama to that end of the room.

  That was about it. He stood quietly, looking round the place like a foreman in the loading bay. He felt some dampness under his rings where there was some soap left; he twisted the gold bands forward, towards the knuckles and dried the few pale millimetres of exposed skin with his shirt sleeve.

  He took a couple of chipped, ceramic bowls from the cupboard and filled them with almonds, olives and slices of dry-cured sausage.

  He tried to imagine Dave coming into the room, and he placed the bowls within reach of his likely sitting positions. The last thing was a bottle; he wanted the bottle to stand on the silver tray, with the cork removed and two short, gleaming glasses standing by.

  Ian had just one precious bottle left of a thick black liqueur made from walnuts. His uncle made the stuff, a hundred bottles each year. It was sweet and warming, contained a lavish complexity of flavours, which stirred even the most dormant taste buds into life.

  ◊

  The brakes on the Land Rover squealed dryly, eventually the thing stopped. Dave had to park on a steep hill, so he yanked the handbrake on, turned the wheels to full lock and left it in reverse gear. He had a look at his face in the rear view mirror; his eyes were evasive, not the evasiveness of the actor but the real discomfort that comes when some part of the self has been able to reckon the situation more clearly than the whole man.

  Reggie had sent him off to do the delivery run; he had milk, cheese and eggs in the back and his last stop of the day was Ian Marble. Marble ran a food-for-oil scam, and reserves of diesel for the Land Rover and Reggie’s tractor were running low.

  Dave brushed his hair and squirted himself with aftershave. He slammed the door shut, grabbed a milk churn and a case of eggs, then turned and climbed the hill. The air was warm, warm enough for Dave to have to take his jacket off and sling it over his shoulder. He walked beside a row of brick houses, tall, elegant buildings with glossy, panelled front doors. He got to number four and entered, climbed the stairs and knocked.

  The door opened swiftly and crunched against the security chain, then it closed a bit, the chain slackened off and the door opened completely.

  Ian stood in the opening, one hand on the door, the other on the frame. He was dressed in flamboyant stripes, a blue cotton shirt with wide brown bands and thin, electric-blue piping.

  ‘Well, well done for finding me. Come in and I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘Thanks! Where do you want the produce?’

  ‘Leave the perishables just inside the door, will you? I’ll get you your diesel when you leave.’

  Dave left the milk and eggs then followed Ian through the flat.

  ‘Nice place.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose it is. The whole house used to belong to some kind of head doctor.’

  Ian picked up the bottle and started to pour the liqueur.

  ‘Nice flowers.’

  ‘Yep, non-seasonal blooms.’

  He turned and handed Dave a brimful glass, then raised his own and sipped. Dave coughed as the alcohol slid down his throat.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s good stuff.’

  ‘Only the best for you, dear boy. Sit down and make yourself at home. How’re things at the farm?’

  Dave helped himself to an olive and drank some more liqueur. He was looking for clues in Ian’s face.

  ‘We had a problem with the police.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They found some guy lying dead in a field out near the farm. He’d been strangled so they questioned me and Reggie. It was awkward, we didn’t know what to say. They wanted to know if we’d seen Leonard. Do you know where he is, Ian?’

  ‘No, of course I bloody don’t, I was hoping that you’d be able to shed some light on that one for me!’

  ‘Why are you so interested in Leonard?’

  Ian poured himself another glass of liqueur and tipped it back.

  ‘Leonard is a clever one, seems to me he’s a born survivor. Do you get me? It’s the Ice Moon, Dave, I’m sure he’s found out how to stay alive through the impact. I’ve got to find him, get the truth out of him, before it’s too bloody late. Do you get me?’

  ‘I get you, but I don’t know where he is. He came by the farm a couple of days ago, but there’s been no word since. Nobody’s seen him.’

  ‘Fuck it!’

  Dave stood and walked to the window; he looked at the daffodils in the glass jug. Lying on the table behind the flowers were two lengths of rope tangled together in an elaborate knot.

  ‘Bloke they found near the farm, he’d been tied up, very fancy job they said. Skilful they said.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Look, seems to me I can’t help you much. I’ve had a bit of a wasted journey and I don’t know where Leonard’s got to! I’d better go, I’ll miss curfew if I don’t set off now.’

  ‘Nonsense, we’ve got this bottle to finish. You’ll stay here tonight and keep me company.’

  Ian wasn’t a big man, he wasn’t physically dominant, but when he said something, it sounded conclusive, like it was legally binding. And Dave had the idea that if things didn’t go as he wanted, there would be a reaction, maybe even an over-reaction.

  ‘Anyway you’ve already missed curfew and I’ve got a very comfy blow-up mattress you can use, OK?’

  ‘Ah alright, no problem.’

  Ian got up and sat down in another chair for no reason, just swapped seats for the hell of it and sat down again after topping up the glasses.r />
  ‘You know something, Dave?’

  ‘What?’

  Dave shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, but there’s something playing on my mind. It’s quite difficult for me, but I’ve been meaning to tell you that… Well, you are a lovely looking young man, as angelic as a soap opera priest.’

  Dave laughed and he blushed.

  ‘A priest, eh? I’m not what you’d call a religious man, Ian.’

  ‘No, nor am I. I suppose my only interest in the subject is fetishist.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m interested in temptation.’

  ‘What about salvation?’

  ‘Oh, bugger that, no such thing.’

  Ian drained his glass.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Dave, I’ve been trying to forget how close we all are to extinction, but I’m crap at that. I’m a bit drained, bit exhausted by the whole thing.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘There’s always something you can do, even if it’s just to distract yourself.’

  Ian got up, crossed to the radio and switched it on. He spent a moment wrestling with interference, before he settled on a signal.

  The liqueur was heating Dave’s head, his cheeks were flushed and his hands were hot.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve noticed lately, as the Ice Moon becomes more and more inevitable.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, haven’t you noticed the amount of emergency sex going on?’

  ‘Not so much, but I am living out on a farm.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? They don’t tell you because they don’t want you to know, but it seems to me that the general public are beginning to realise that one of the greatest aphrodisiacs of all is impending disaster. It sets some sort of racial alarm off, a survival response is triggered. Do you see what I mean?’

  Dave wasn’t that comfortable with the theory. He was feeling light-headed, drowsy. The room was not as still as it should be; it was becoming fluid and weightless. The daffodils were scrolling to the left, moving behind Ian and Ian’s head had vanished; it had dropped inside his collar as he struggled to pull his shirt off. Dave tried to get up, he wanted to get up and maybe get some air, but his legs wouldn’t take his weight. He fell painlessly to the floor and looked up at the naked man. Ian lowered himself, knelt across Dave, pinning his arms down with his shins. He grabbed him by the ears, lifted him closer and kissed his mouth. He was mumbling in between kisses, and the words rattled around inside Dave’s skull. ‘You’re a pretend person, Dave, you’re not being honest with yourself.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The ceiling came into view, a flat sheet of metal riveted along a central seam. Leonard couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to sleep as soundly as this. His eyes had opened of their own accord. No screeching alarm clock, buzzing telephone, or heavy handed bedfellow rising.

  The lorry was still roaring along, bouncing gently over patched repairs in the crumbling tarmac roads. He pulled the short curtains to one side and peered out. Trees and a flat horizon, that was all; the close things whipping past, the distant farmhouses hardly moving.

  Leonard opened the hatch and climbed down into the empty haulage area behind the cab. His stomach was gurgling with hunger and he felt weak at the knees as he tried to stand still on the plywood. He placed his legs wide apart for balance and looked around in the dim light. The overhead tube had been switched off but rays of silver daylight were shining in through holes in the side panels. Leonard took a closer look at the holes; he pushed his finger through and realised they were bullet holes. On the other side of the lorry there were several closely grouped blast patterns from a shotgun. This allowed sunlight to scatter through onto the floor.

  Behind the ladder that led up to the bunk, there was an access door to the cab. Leonard grabbed the handle, twisted and pulled on it. He found himself standing behind the seats with Lena sitting in between the drivers, looking out through the big windscreen. She turned and smiled, the drivers looked back and nodded. Lena made the introductions.

  ‘This is Paul and this is Danny.’

  ‘Alright lads, how’s it going?’

  Paul answered.

  ‘We’re getting there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where we’re going.’

  ‘How long’s it going to take?’

  ‘Don’t know for sure yet, depends which roads are still open.’

  Leonard rested his arms on the seatbacks and watched the road.

  ‘We’re going to have to go straight through the town up ahead because the ring road’s blocked. It’s getting a bit wild-west down through the high street, so we’ll see how we go, eh?’

  Danny took a shotgun from beneath the dashboard and stood the butt on the seat so it was visible from the roadside.

  ‘We don’t like slowing down too much here, they’re a dodgy crowd.’

  Leonard looked left and right. The landscape was kind of semi-rural, semi-detached, a few shops every now and then, a garage, a pub, net-less goalposts and fallow fields. There was a mid-morning mist hanging in the air, a thickening of the atmosphere like the day after bonfire night.

  As the lorry climbed over the brow of a hill, the town came into view.

  ‘Here we go, then!’

  They were approaching a sort of market town that looked as if it had slipped back several centuries into the darker ages.

  Danny piped up.

  ‘Better pull over. Paul and I’ll open up the back of the lorry!’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Leonard studied the lads: medium build, medium height, mousy-haired men in their mid-thirties. They wore scuffed white trainers, blue jeans and their removals company sweatshirts, with BARRY’S REMOVALS written in bold, three-D lettering.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’

  ‘We’ve got to open up the back to show them the lorry’s empty.’

  ‘Don’t worry about all this, Leonard. The people here are just as uptight as you are, that’s all. There’s not much food around, not much petrol either.’

  Danny jumped down, ran round and opened the back up. He was quickly back into the cab again and the lorry pulled away and picked up speed.

  ‘Here you go, put one of these on.’

  Danny handed Leonard a sweatshirt. As his head popped up through the neck, Leonard felt a rising nausea. Danny shook his head.

  ‘Looks a lot worse than the last time we came through. Panic’s really starting to take a hold.’

  ‘Yeah, you can’t really blame them, though, can you? Time’s running out on all of us.’

  Paul laughed pointlessly, his shoulders tightening as he gripped the steering wheel.

  ‘Nobody really knows what to do with themselves. This used to be a nice quiet little town; look at it now! Look at that!’

  Off to the left of the road as they drove down the hill, a vertical mast of wood had been driven into the ground. At the top was what looked like a wagon wheel. Lashed to the wheel was the body of a young man.

  Leonard shouted.

  ‘Shit!’

  Lena looked up, then turned away.

  Hundreds of people were milling about, cars competed with horses for road space and smoke rose from fires behind the high street. A gang of men wearing mix-and-match military uniform stood beside an oil-drum roadblock. Paul stopped and waved.

  ‘OK, lads, how’s things?’

  ‘Fucking great, thanks! Got the toll?’

  ‘Course we have.’

  Danny opened his door and lifted a box out from beneath his seat. He handed it over and one of them cut the wrapping open to check the contents. He looked up and grinned; it was a case of good scotch.

  Two of the gang members checked the lorry. They climbed in and kicked around in the back, then jumped off. They pulled the oil drums to one side and waved the lorry through.

  Danny’s ribs rose and fell as he breathed deeply agai
n.

  ‘It’s going be a tight squeeze down through the high street.’

  He turned to Leonard.

  ‘Ignore them if they shout out, if they jump up, waggle this at them.’

  He passed Leonard a second shotgun.

  ‘It’s loaded, but don’t shoot anyone unless you really have to. It’ll only slow us down!’

  They slowed to walking pace and entered a one-way system. It was a chaotic scene, a mid-day chaos that had probably been building all morning. It looked as if they’d been laying out the tables and setting up the stalls for a Breugel painting.

  Leonard turned as two kids were lifted onto the back of the lorry by adults. He raised the shotgun.

  ‘We’ve nothing. See, we’re empty!’

  The kids ignored Leonard; they just searched the place with their eyes. They looked dishevelled, and their trademark tracksuits needed a wash. They couldn’t see anything worth having so they started to lower themselves back onto the road.

  ‘Cock-sucker! Yeah, cock-sucker!’

  They jumped off and ran back into the market, watching each other’s backs.

  People were banging on the side of the lorry and a few stones came pelting through the rear door and rattled around in the back. In front, in the middle of the road, there was a burning car.

  ‘Shit! That’s torn it, the road’s blocked.’

  Paul pointed across the street at a cafe.

  ‘See that café over there, Leonard? They’re alright in there. Take Lena over and stay put until we get this sodding car moved, alright?’

  ‘OK. How long will you be?’

  ‘Don’t know, it’s a bloody red-hot piece of metal so we’ll have to get some ropes on it or something. As long as we get out of here before nightfall, we’ll be OK. After dark the bloody militia fuck off and people start shooting each other.’

  Lena grabbed her bag, climbed over the seat and stood next to Leonard.

  ‘Come on then, Lena, let’s go.’

  Out on the street, groups of people were crowding around the stallholders, like the four deep circles that grow up around fistfights. They were selling stuff off the backs of beaten-up transit vans, dealing food, drugs and guns. They had minders who stood a few metres away and aimed rifles into the crowd. The buyers and sellers weighed up the relative value of this and that. They argued, and then the swap price was bullied to a conclusion.