Wilt In Nowhere Part 2

Chapter 7.

Wilt's day had begun badly and got steadily worse. All his hopes and expectations of the previous evening had proved terribly wrong. Instead of the homely pub with a log fire, and a good meal and several pints of beer or better still real ale inside him, and a warm bed waiting for him, he found himself trudging along a country lane with dark clouds closing in from the West. In many respects it had been a disastrous day. He had walked the mile and a half to the station with his knapsack on his back only to find that there were no trains to Birmingham because of work on the line. Wilt had had to take a bus. It was a comfortable enough busor would have been if it hadn't been half filled with hyperactive schoolchildren under the charge of a teacher who did his level best to ignore them. The rest of the pa.s.sengers were Senior, and in Wilt's opinion Senile, Citizens, out on a day-trip to enjoy themselves, a process that seemed to consist of complaining loudly about the behaviour of the hyperactive kids and insisting on stopping at every service station on the motorway to relieve themselves. In between service stations they sang songs Wilt had seldom heard before and never wanted to hear again. And when finally they reached Birmingham and he bought a ticket for Hereford he had difficulty finding the bus. In the end he did. It was a very old double-decker bus with a faded 'Hereford' sign on the front. Wilt thanked G.o.d there were no other pa.s.sengers in it. He'd had enough of small boys with sticky fingers climbing across his lap to look out the window and of old age pensioners singing, or at any rate caterwauling, 'Ganging along the Scotswood Road to see the Blaydon Races' and 'We're going to hang out the was.h.i.+ng on the Siegfried Line'. Wilt climbed wearily into the back and lay down across the seat and fell asleep. When the bus left he woke up and was surprised to find he was still the only pa.s.senger. He went back to sleep again. He had only had two sandwiches and a bottle of beer all day and he was hungry. Still, when the bus got to Hereford he'd find a cafe and have a good meal and look for a bed and breakfast and in the morning set out on his walking tour. The bus didn't get to Hereford. Instead it stopped outside a shabby bungalow on what was clearly a distinctly B road and the driver got out. Wilt waited ten minutes for him to return and then got out himself and was about to knock on the door when it opened and a large angry man looked out.

'What do you want?' he demanded. In the bungalow a Staffords.h.i.+re bull terrier growled menacingly.

'Well, as a matter of fact I want to go to Hereford,' said Wilt, keeping a wary eye on the dog.

'So what are you doing here? This isn't b.l.o.o.d.y Hereford.'

Wilt produced his ticket.

'I paid my fare for Hereford in Birmingham and that bus'

'Isn't going nowhere near Hereford. It's going to the f.u.c.king knacker's yard if I can't flog the f.u.c.ker first.'

'But it says 'Hereford' on the front.'

'My, oh, my,' said the man sarcastically. 'You could have fooled me. You sure it don't say 'New York'? Go and take a dekko and don't come back and tell me. Just b.u.g.g.e.r off. You come back and I'll set the dog on you.'

He went back into the bungalow and slammed the door. Wilt retreated and looked at the sign on the bus. It was blank. Wilt stared up and down the road and decided to go to the left. It was then he noticed the sc.r.a.pyard behind the house. It was full of old rusting cars and lorries. Wilt walked on. There was bound to be a village somewhere down the road and where there was a village there was bound to be a pub. And beer. But after an hour in which he pa.s.sed nothing more accommodating than another awful bungalow with a 'For Sale' sign outside it, he took his knapsack off and sat down on the gra.s.s verge opposite and considered his situation. The bungalow with its boarded windows and overgrown garden wasn't a pleasing prospect. Lugging his knapsack Wilt moved a couple of hundred yards down the lane and sat down again and wished he'd bought some more sandwiches. But the evening sun shone down and the sky to the east was clear so things weren't all that bad. In fact in many ways this was exactly what he had set out to experience. He had no idea where he was and no wish to know. Right from the start he had intended to erase the map of England he carried in his head. Not that he ever could; he had memorised it since his first geography lessons and over the years that internal map had been enlarged as much by his reading as by the places he'd visited. Hardy was Dorset or Wess.e.x, and Bovington was Egdon Heath in _The Return of the Native_ as well as where Lawrence of Arabia had been killed on his motorcycle; _Bleak House_ was Lincolns.h.i.+re; Arnold Bennett's _Five Towns_ were the Potteries in Staffords.h.i.+re; even Sir Walter Scott had contributed to Wilt's literary cartography with _Woodstock_ and _Ivanhoe._ Graham Greene too. Wilt's Brighton had been defined for ever by Pinkie and the woman waiting on the pier. But if he couldn't erase that map he could at any rate do his best to ignore it by not having a clue where he was, by avoiding large towns and even by disregarding place names that might prevent him from finding the England he was looking for. It was a romantic, nostalgic England. He knew that but he was indulging his romantic streak. He wanted to look at old houses, at rivers and streams, at old trees and ancient woods. The houses could be small, mere cottages or large houses standing in parkland, once great mansions but now in all probability divided up into apartments or turned into nursing homes or schools. None of that mattered to Wilt. He just wanted to wash Oakhurst Avenue, the Tech and the meaninglessness of his own routine out of his system and see England with new eyes, eyes unsullied by the experience of so many years as a teacher.

Feeling more cheerful he got to his feet and set off again; he pa.s.sed a farm and came to a T-junction where he turned left towards a bridge over a river. Beyond it there was the village he had been looking for. A village with a pub. Wilt hurried on only to discover that the pub was shut for refurbishment and that there were no cafes or B&B guest-houses in the place. There was a shop but that too was shut. Wilt trudged on and finally found what he was looking for, an old woman who told him that, while she didn't take lodgers in the normal way, he could stay the night in her spare bedroom and just hoped he didn't snore. And so after a supper of eggs and bacon and the down payment of 15 he went to bed in an old bra.s.s bedstead with a lumpy mattress and slept like a log.

At 7 the old woman woke him with a cup of tea and told him where the bathroom was. Wilt drank the tea and studied the tintypes on the wall, one of General Buller in the Boer War with troops crossing the river. The bathroom looked as if it had been around during the Boer War too but he had a shave and a wash and then another apparently inevitable helping of bacon and eggs for breakfast, and thanked the old woman and set off down the road.

'You'll have to get to Raughton before you find a hostel,' the old woman, Mrs Bishop, told him. 'It's five miles down thataway.'

Wilt thanked her and went down thataway until he came to a path that led uphill into some woods and turned off along it. He tried to forget the name Raughton, perhaps it was Rorton, and whatever it was he no longer cared. He was in the English countryside, old England, the England he had come to discover for himself. For half a mile he climbed up the hill and came out on to a stunning view. Below him a patchwork of meadows and beyond them a river. He went down and crossed the empty fields and presently was standing looking at a river that flowed, as it must have done for thousands of years, down the valley, in the process creating the flat empty fields he had just crossed. This was what he had come to find. He took off his knapsack and sat on the bank and watched the water drifting by with the occasional ripple that suggested a fish or an undercurrent, some hidden obstacle or pile of rubbish that was sliding past under the surface. Above him the sky was a cloudless blue. Life was marvellous. He was doing what he had come to do. Or so he thought. As ever in Wilt's life he was moving towards his Nemesis.

It lay in the vengeful mind of a justifiably embittered old woman in Meldrum Sloc.u.m. All her working life, ever since she had entered the service of General and Mrs Battleby forty-five years before, Martha Meadows had been the cleaner, the cook, the housekeeper, the every help the General and his wife depended on at Meldrum Manor. She had been devoted to the old couple and the Manor had been the centre of her life but the General and his wife had been killed five years before in an accident with a drunken lorry driver; the estate had been taken over by their nephew Bob Battleby and everything had changed. From being what the old General had called 'our faithful retainer, Martha', a t.i.tle of which she had been exceedingly proud, she had found herself being called that 'b.l.o.o.d.y woman'. In spite of it she had stayed on. Bob Battleby was a drunk, and a nasty drunk at that, but she had her husband to think of. He'd been the gardener at the Manor but a bout of pneumonia followed by arthritis had forced him to leave his job. Martha had to work and there was nowhere else in Meldrum she could find employment. Besides, she had hopes that Battleby would drink himself to death before too long. Instead he began an affair with Ruth Rottecombe, the wife of the local MP and Shadow Minister for Social Enhancement. It was largely thanks to her that Martha had been replaced by a Filipino maid who was less disapproving of what they called their little games. Martha Meadows had kept her thoughts to herself but one morning Battleby, after a particularly drunken night, had lost his temper and had thrown her thingsthe clothes she came in before changing into her working onesinto the muddy yard outside the kitchen; he had called her a f.u.c.king old b.i.t.c.h and better off dead at that. Mrs Meadows had walked home seething with rage, and determined on getting her own back. Day after day she had sat at home beside her sick husbandwho'd recently had a stroke and couldn't talkgrimly determined to get her revenge. She had to be very, very careful. The Battlebys were a rich and influential family in the county and she had often thought of appealing to them, but for the most part they were of a different generation to the General's nephew and seldom came to the Manor. No, she would have to act on her own. Two empty years pa.s.sed before she thought of her own husband's nephew, Bert Addle. Bert had always been a bit of a tearaway but she'd always had a soft spot for him, had lent him money when he was in trouble and had never asked for it back. Been like a mother to him, she had. Yes, Bert would help, especially now he'd just lost his job at the s.h.i.+pyard at Barrow-in-Furness. What she had in mind would certainly give him something to do.

'He called you that?' Bert said when she told him. 'Why, I'll kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Calling my auntie a thing like that when you've been with the family all those years. By G.o.d, I will.'

But Martha shook her head.

'You'll do no such thing. I'm not having you go to prison. I've got a better idea.'

Bert looked at her questioningly.

'Like what?'

'Disgrace him in public, so he can't show his face round here no more, him and that hussy of his. That's what I want.'

'How you going to do that?' Bert asked. He'd never seen Martha so furious.

'Him and that Rottecombe b.i.t.c.h get up to some strange things, I can tell you,' she said darkly.

'What sort of things?'

's.e.x,' said Mrs Meadows. 'Unnatural s.e.x. Like him being tied up and...Well, Bert, I don't like to say. But what I do say is I've seen the things they use. Whips and hoods and handcuffs. He keeps them locked away along of the magazines. p.o.r.nography and pictures of little boys and worse. Horrible.'

'Little boys? He could go to prison for that.'

'Best place for him.'

'But how come you've seen them if they're locked away?'

'Cos he was so drunk one morning he was dead to the world in the old General's dressing room and the cupboard was open and the key still in the lock. And I know where he keeps his keys, like the spare ones. He don't know I do but I found them. On a beam over the old tractor in the barn he don't ever use and can't cos it's broken. Shoves them up there where no one would think of looking. I seen him from the kitchen window. Keys of the back and front doors, key of his study and his Range Rover and the key of that cupboard with all that filth in it. Right, now here's what I want you to do. That is if you're prepared to, like.'

'I'd do anything for you, Aunt Martha. You knows that.'

By the time he left Bert knew exactly what he had to do.

'And don't you come in your car,' Martha told him. 'I don't want you getting into trouble. You hire one or something. I'll give you the money.'

Bert shook his head.

'Don't need to. I've got enough and I know where I can get something to use, never you worry,' he said and drove off happily, filled with admiration for his auntie. She was a sly one, Auntie Martha was. Thursday, she'd said.

'Unless I phones you otherwise. And I'll use a public phone. I've heard they can trace calls from homes and suchlike, the police can. Can't be too careful. I'll say...' She looked at the calendar with the kitten on the wall. 'I'll say Thursday 7th or 14th or whatever Thursday you're to do it. And that's all.'

'Why Thursday?' Bert asked.

'Cos that's when they play bridge at the Country Club till after midnight and he gets so drunk she can do what she likes with him and she don't go home till 4 or 5 in the morning. You'll have time enough to do what I told you.'

Bert drove past the Manor House, checked the lane behind it and then drove north with the map Martha Meadows had given him. He paused for a moment outside the Rottecombes' house, Leyline Lodge, and decided to come down again and make sure he knew exactly where to go. He'd borrow a friend's car for that trip too. He'd learnt a lot from Martha and he didn't want to get her into trouble.

Chapter 8.

Eva was not having a wonderful time. What she was going through was keeping her wide awake with worry half the night. After the effusive greetings at the airport from Uncle Wally and Auntie Joan and their delight at seeing the quads again, they had driven out to the private jet bearing the logo of Immelmann Enterprises and had climbed aboard. The jet had been cleared for take-off and presently they were flying west towards Wilma. Below them the landscape was dotted with lakes and rivers and after a while they were over woods and hills, with signs of habitation few and far between. The quads peered out of the windows and to satisfy their curiosity. Uncle Wally put the jet into a dive and levelled out quite low down so that they could see the ground even better. Eva, who wasn't accustomed to flying and had never been up in a small plane before, felt queasy and frightened. But at least the girls were enjoying the ride and Uncle Wally was enjoying showing off his flying skills to them.

'She isn't as fast as the jets I flew in the Air Force out of Lakenheath, England,' he said, 'but she's good and manoeuvrable and she covers the ground fast enough for an old man like me.'

'Oh, shoot, honey, you ain't old,' Auntie Joan said. 'I don't like you using that word. Everybody's just as old as they feel and the way you feel, Wally, feels pretty good and young to me. How's Henry these days, Eva?'

'Oh, Henry's just fine,' said Eva, readily adapting to American.

'Henry's a great guy,' said Wally. 'You got the makings of a great man there, Evie, you know that? I guess you girls are mighty proud of your daddy, eh? Having a daddy who's a professor is really something.'

Penelope began the process of disillusionment.

'Dad's not ambitious,' she said. 'He drinks too much.'

Wally said nothing but the plane dipped a little.

'A guy's got a right to a little liquor after a hard day's work,' he said. 'That's what I always say, isn't it, Joanie honey?'

Auntie Joan's smile suggested that that was indeed exactly what he always said. It also suggested disapproval.

'I gave up smoking though,' Wally said. 'Man, that stuff kills you and no mistake. Feel a hundred and ten per cent better since I quit.'

'Dad's taken up smoking again,' Samantha told him. 'He smokes a pipe because he says everyone is against smoking and no one is going to tell him what to do and what not to do.'

The plane dipped again.

'He really says that? Henry really says that? That no one is going to tell him what not to do?' said Wally, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the two women. 'Would you credit that? And he ain't much to look at manhoodwise either.'

'Wally!' said Auntie Joanie and there was no mistaking her meaning.

'And you stop speaking about Daddy like that,' Eva told Samantha with equal firmness.

'h.e.l.l, I didn't mean nothing by it,' said Wally. 'Manhood is just an expression.'

'Yeah, and yours isn't anything to write home about either,' said Auntie Joanie. 'Cracks like that just aren't called for.'

Uncle Wally said nothing. They flew on and finally Josephine spoke up.

'Boys aren't the only people with manhoods,' she said. 'I've got a sort of manhood too. It's not a very big one though. It's called a'

'Shut up!' Eva shouted. 'We don't want to hear. Do you hear me, Josephine? n.o.body's interested.'

'But Miss Sprockett said it was quite normal and some women prefer' A swift cuff from Eva ended this exposition of Miss Sprockett's opinion of the function of the c.l.i.toris in one-to-one encounters between women. All the same it was clear that Uncle Wally was still interested.

'Gee, Miss Sprockett? That's some name for a woman.'

'She's our biology teacher and she's not like most women,' Samantha told him. 'She believes in practising masturbation. She says it's safer than having s.e.x with men.'

This time there could be no doubting Wally's shock or the aerodynamic effect of Eva's sudden attempt to reach Samantha and shut her up. As the plane lurched, Wally fought to control it and wasn't helped by the blow on the side of his head intended for Samantha who had seen it coming and had ducked.

's.h.i.+t!' shouted Wally. 'For Chrissake everyone sit still. You want to ditch this kite?'

Even Auntie Joanie was alarmed. 'Eva, do sit down!' she yelled.

Eva sat back in her seat with a grim look on her face. Everything she had hoped to prevent was beginning to happen. She sat looking lividly at Samantha and willed her to go dumb at least temporarily. She was going to have to give the quads a good talking-to. For the rest of the flight there was a grim silence in the aircraft and an hour later they touched down at the little airfield at Wilma. The Immelmann Enterprises stretch limo in red and gold was waiting for them. So, discreetly hidden in an unmarked car, were two men from the Drug Enforcement Agency who watched as the Wilt children climbed out of the plane. In the back sat a local cop.

'You reckon?'

'Could be. Sam said they were in the same row 'longside the guy Sol Campito. Who's the fat guy?'

'h.e.l.l, that's Wally Immelmann. Runs the biggest plant in Wilma.'

'Anything on him? Like he's done time inside.'

'On Wally? h.e.l.l no, he's clean as you can be in his business,' said the cop. 'Solid citizen. Pays his dues. Votes Republican and subscribes to everything he can. Backed Herb Reich for Congress.'

'So that makes him clean?'

'I didn't say he was clean as a hound's tooth. Just that he's a big wheel round these parts. I don't see him into drug running.'

'Just another f.u.c.king good ole boy? That right?' said the DEA man who was clearly not a Southerner.

'I guess so. I don't mix in those circles. I mean, man, that's money.'

'And how's his business doing right now?'

'Same as everything in Wilma. Pretty average, I guess. I don't know. He downsized last year but the latest is he's diversifying into things outside vacuum pumps.'

'So he could be...s.h.i.+t, look at the one with the obesity problem.'

'That's his wife, Mrs Immelmann,' said the cop.

'Yeah, well it would be, wouldn't it? Who's the other one needs liposuction?'

The second DEA man checked the file.

'Name of Wilt, Mrs Eva Wilt, mother of the four pack, 45 Oakhurst Avenue, Ipford, England. Want to put out a check call on her?'

'They were in the same row with Sol. Could be he was the decoy. Yeah, call Atlanta and they can decide.'

They watched as the limo drove off. After it had gone the local cop got out and drove down to the Sheriff's office.

'What's with those drug-busting s.h.i.+ts?' asked the Sheriff who resented Northerners almost as much as he resented being bossed around by the Feds. 'Come marching into Wilma like they own the whole f.u.c.king place.'

'You ain't going to believe this. They got Wally Immelmann tagged for a drug dealer.'

The Sheriff stared at him. The man was right. He didn't believe him.

'Wally into running drugs? You got to be joking! Oh my G.o.d, they must be out of their f.u.c.king heads. If Wally got to hear he was on a f.u.c.king dealer suspicion list he'd go apes.h.i.+t. Would he ever. Like we got Mount St Helens volcano right here in Wispoen County spewing brimstone. Jesus.' He stopped and pondered for a moment. 'What evidence they got?'

'The fatso with the four girls. Dogs picked them out at the airport. And Wally is moving into pharmaceuticals. It fits.'

'And the woman? Why not hold her for questioning?'