The Unhappy Medium, page 16
Propped on an easel there was a large map of Britain with flags, post-it notes and press cuttings. ‘Rare heathland redevelopment causes anger,’ one said. ‘Unique Victorian cemetery purchased by controversial developers,’ said another. The little flags marked battlefields, wildlife reserves and parkland while the clippings told of mostly abortive campaigns aimed to block the McCauleys from achieving their objectives. Bland sketches depicted one of the new developments, rank upon rank of uninspired houses, the architect merely Photoshopping the same dull visual eighteen times in a bid to get the job off his desk. ‘McCauley Brothers, estate agents and developers of distinction, cordially invite you to explore this unique and very special new development,’ declared the heading. ‘Welcome to Juggin’s Lump.’
Baxter was suddenly aware of a shadow beside him.
‘Do you like history, Mr Baxter?’ came the weedy voice of Ascot McCauley. Baxter turned to address his future employer.
‘Very much!’ he lied. With practised assertiveness, he thrust his hand forward. ‘Christopher Baxter.’
‘So I gather,’ said McCauley weakly, reluctantly shaking his hand as if it was a sock. ‘You found us easily I trust?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Baxter awkwardly as Ascot McCauley fixed him hard in the eye, inspecting his features. ‘The old sat nav, you know?’
‘You have an old sat nav?’ asked Ascot, his eyebrow rising.
‘Oh no, it’s quite new, err I just meant ...’ Baxter backed slightly away. Suddenly, he became aware of another person in the room. When he turned to look, confusingly it was also Ascot McCauley, now behind him. Baxter, befuddled, wondered how he could possibly move so fast. He was still more baffled when McCauley was once again in front of him when he turned back.
‘Can we get you anything, a coffee perhaps? I can get Miss Dryer to make you one,’ Ascot said, affecting a reassuring smile.
‘Er no ... thanks.’
‘Dear Wendy. She’s such a treasure, she’s been with us ... well, forever really – she came with the building.’
‘Right,’ said Baxter, trying to equate the word ‘treasure’ with the peculiar woman who’d just shown him to the boardroom. He was mulling this over when another man appeared from behind him. ‘Epsom, this is Mr Baxter,’ said Ascot, introducing his identical brother. Baxter quickly looked from one McCauley to the other, astonished by their similarity. From head to toe, in face and in dress, there were no differences – nothing but the letters on their silk handkerchiefs poking neatly out from their blazer pockets and their initialled signet rings.
‘A pleasure,’ said Epsom McCauley, bending over Baxter like a heron at a water feature, so disquieting him that he nearly missed the new brother’s thin hand as it uncurled towards him in welcome. Baxter cautiously shook the moist bony hand; it limply held his own for an uncomfortable second before slipping damply away.
‘Twins?’ he said involuntarily.
‘Triplets,’ corrected a voice from the doorway, and in walked yet another brother, no less identical than his siblings. If anything, this one was more similar than the other two.
‘This is Plumpton, my other brother,’ said Ascot McCauley. With that, the three brothers closed together in a row. Baxter, now thoroughly unnerved, smiled in embarrassment. He looked from one brother to another, unable to think of anything suitable to say.
‘Triplets, yes, of course,’ he uttered clumsily.
‘Please, come and sit down,’ said Epsom, and they urged Baxter ahead of them to a table in front of a case of antiques containing African masks, Nazi memorabilia and medieval carvings. Baxter sat down, one of the McCauleys taking the seat to his left, another to the right and one directly opposite. He returned their mostly blank expressions with a bad grin. ‘Thank you for coming down at such short notice, Mr Baxter,’ said the McCauley on the left, looking down at his notes.
‘Not a problem,’ Baxter replied, ‘thank you for inviting me.’ He tried to loosen his collar.
‘So ... how much do you know about our business, Mr Baxter?’ said the right-hand brother.
‘Oh not much, I confess,’ said Baxter awkwardly. ‘I mean ... not having a website is sort of ...’
‘Unusual?’ said the front brother, cutting Baxter short.
‘Quite,’ said the brother on his left. The four-way conversation was making Baxter flick his eyes about like a soldier scanning for snipers. ‘We are a very discreet business, Mr Baxter. Very discreet indeed,’ said the front McCauley. ‘We can’t have just anyone knowing all about us, can we? McCauley developments deal with a great many sensitive projects. We have to be very discreet.’ The brothers all narrowed their eyes towards Christopher. ‘Are you discreet, Mr Baxter?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Baxter, shifting in his seat. ‘Very discreet, very trustworthy.’
‘Good,’ murmured the brothers in synchrony. Baxter looked at the A and the M on the front brother’s handkerchief, and felt safe to assume that this was Ascot.
‘It says here, Mr Baxter, that you have a working knowledge of Latin, is that correct?’
‘Er ... well not that much – a smattering,’ lied Baxter.
‘It’s not important,’ said the right brother, suppressing a smile, and all three brothers nodded at each other knowingly.
‘It’s not?’ said Baxter, confused again.
The right brother ignored the question. ‘Dental condition good?’ he asked.
‘Er yes ... got to look after your teeth,’ said Baxter. A worry line wrinkled across his forehead. ‘Can I ask why you ...’
‘Publicity is so important, Mr Baxter, don’t you agree?’ said Ascot McCauley. ‘It’s so very important to look right ... on television.’
‘Television?’ Baxter asked. ‘Really, what me?’
‘Certainly,’ Ascot continued. ‘We find ourselves frequently dealing with the media in our line of work.’
‘Ohh!’ said Christopher Baxter, his reservations dissolving in barely repressed vanity. ‘Cool.’
‘Your health, Mr Baxter? It’s good I trust?’ said the McCauley on the right .
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said Baxter.
‘Blood pressure?’
‘Normal.’
‘Diet?’
‘How do you mean?’ Baxter asked.
‘You eat well?’
‘I look after myself, you know, five a day and all that.’
‘Five what?’ asked Ascot McCauley.
‘You know, fruit,’ said Baxter.
‘You eat five fruit every day?’ asked Ascot. The brothers looked at each other and back to Baxter.
‘You know, fruit, vegetables, recommended daily doses – vitamins and minerals and that stuff.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Ascot, making notes. Then he put down his pen and leaned forward.
‘Religion?’ he asked, his voice suddenly quieter and more serious. Baxter fumbled with the awkward question in his mind, searching for a sound-bite.
‘Well, I’m quite a spiritual person,’ he hedged, his eyes looking to the sky through the ceiling for divine intervention. ‘But I’m not really linked to any one faith.’
‘Excellent!’ said all three brothers together. Baxter was left wondering which part of the cliché had pleased them so much.
‘You see,’ said Ascot McCauley, ‘in our work, we have to deal with a wide range of faiths. It would not be becoming to appear to be affiliated with any one religion in particular.’ His brothers nodded.
‘Gotcha,’ said Baxter, not actually having a clue what Ascot was talking about.
‘Now we appreciate that you have come a long way to be with us today,’ said Ascot. ‘You must be keen to get to your room and unpack your things before starting.’
‘My room?’ asked Baxter, confused. ‘But I was planning to find a hotel in Langton Hadlow, up the road.’
‘Oh good lord no,’ said Ascot. ‘The hotels in the village have all been closed down and there’s nothing else for miles.’
‘Really,’ said Baxter. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Very,’ said Ascot knowingly. ‘I am absolutely certain of it. Anyway, why pay for a hotel when we have more than adequate accommodation here at the Grange? We won’t hear of it. ’
‘Well, if you’re sure ...’ Baxter said reluctantly. Fan as he was of corporate hospitality, he was quite certain that his room, if it was anything like the rest of the building, would be no Holiday Inn.
‘Absolutely Mr Baxter,’ said Ascot McCauley. ‘You will find our hospitality to be of a very high standard. The meals here are created by our very own chef and all the vegetables are fresh from our kitchen garden. We are self-sufficient in almost every department, in fact, and it helps us to keep our distance from the outside world. But first, before Wendy shows you up to your room, I wondered if you would indulge my brothers and me with something of a screen test.’
‘Screen test?’ asked Baxter, baffled once again.
‘I believe that’s the technical term,’ Ascot continued. ‘Yes, we’d love to see you reading something for us, just like at a press conference.’
‘Press conference?’ asked Baxter excitedly.
‘Of course! Just like on television,’ said Ascot. ‘You’ll be wonderful I’m sure, what with your health and your perfect teeth. But that’s all in the future. For now, we would so like to see you in action, reading from a little something we have prepared.’
Baxter nodded enthusiastically, encouraged by the thought of a public stage for his newly rediscovered self-respect. ‘If you’ll follow us then, Mr Baxter,’ Ascot continued, and with that he crossed to the far side of the room. He approached a section of the oak panelling and pulled back part of the wall to reveal a low arched doorway.
Ascot gestured to Baxter to come forward. Cautiously, he shuffled through the arch into a small mock-Gothic chapel bereft of windows. Long satin and velvet drapes hung from the walls. Pews were lined up to face an old brass lectern, fashioned into an ornate eagle with outstretched wings. Upon its broad back lay a single open volume, bathed in the light of two solitary candles.
‘What a cool room,’ Baxter said as brightly as he could, even though the whole thing was frankly creeping him out. The far wall was a mass of glass cabinets similar to the one in the boardroom, their contents a dark jumble of antiques and curios that Baxter could see dancing in the flickering light. Every object, without exception, was ugly and unsettling; they were either badly made or portrayed subjects so unpleasant that Baxter felt mild nausea just looking at them. ‘Antiques?’ he said, grimly.
‘Indeed Mr Baxter, how observant of you to notice them,’ said one of the brothers behind him. ‘We are something of collectors you see.’
‘What, like the Antiques Roadshow ?’ said Chris.
‘Yes,’ said another voice behind him. ‘Just like the Antiques Roadshow .’
‘I’d like to show you what to read,’ said Ascot. He led Chris forward to the lectern as the two other brothers took their places on the front pew. Close up to the cabinets now, Baxter could see their contents with hideous clarity. Primitive ivory eyes peered out at him and withered leather fingers with gold and silver adornments pointed from cushions of dark, blood-red velvet. And in the centre, a hooded, carved figure caught Baxter’s anxious darting eyes, gilt roman numerals on a box at its base. He began to feel the same disquiet that he had felt after the unpleasant Northumberland incident and started to wish he’d grabbed the heartburn tablets from the glove compartment.
With his hand on Baxter’s shoulder, Ascot pointed to the page of aged text before them. The calligraphic script was fully legible to Baxter, even though he couldn’t understand a word. ‘Latin,’ he observed correctly. ‘What does it say?’
‘Oh I shouldn’t worry about that!’ said Ascot, laughing the issue away. ‘It’s just a test piece, something about folk traditions I expect. You’ll note that we’ve put your name in it from time to time, where the blanks were. That’s to make it a bit more ... “user friendly”. Please, start when you feel ready. Oh, and try to ignore the illustrations if you can.’
‘Illustrations?’ Baxter could see them now, foul sketches of devils, fires and long precessions of sad-looking people with pointy hats. ‘Er, right,’ he gullibly continued, missing all the danger signs. ‘I’ll just read this then?’
‘Yes, perfect!’ said Ascot, clapping his hands together as he joined his brothers on the pew.
Baxter knew he was good at ‘one-to-one sales interfacing’, but he’d never really done much public speaking, especially in Latin. Yet his instinct for self-promotion was strong. ‘You can do this Chris,’ he thought to himself.
‘Action!’ shouted Ascot McCauley theatrically. Baxter took a breath.
‘Er ... Ego autem sum quasi vas inane,’ he began awkwardly, stuttering along the lines of meaningless prose like a small child. ‘ Ego donavit corpus meum ad dominum meum in exercitu magno Cardinalis Balthazar De La Senza,’ he continued, quickly becoming surprisingly fluent despite his vaguely cockney tone. ‘Tempore domini Inquisitoris magni voluntatis esse, aequo animo et scissa animam meam a fundamentis et suspensi in abyssum quasi stercora, nihil prorsus in aeternum damnatus egisse,’ he went on, oblivious to something stirring in the small box behind him. Wisps of purple drifted from it like steam from a cooling kettle. ‘Ego Christophorus Baxtere accipe usitata res est, uti et magnis La Senza caput meum corium et nervorum et magnifici primum genus dentium,’ Baxter continued, strangely enjoying himself.
Far away in another place, the bound and trapped Cardinal La Senza had begun to whisper the words in unison beneath the folds of his hooded cloak. Oblivious, Baxter was flying now, quite unaware of the sinister coaching he was receiving. ‘O magnum La Senza, cum venerit, et ad hoc bonum esse propter tempus, quia ego miser!’ Baxter read on. A coiling snake-like tendril of purple had fingered its way through the lock of the cabinet and was creeping menacingly towards its target. It advanced up Baxter’s legs, body and neck until finally, it crept imperceptibly into his ears. ‘Ego Christophorus Baxtere immolare volens alumnam cerebrum meum et animam, ut vos mos postulo ut enable uariat possessione tua ...’
Pleased beyond measure by what he had fondled and explored, La Senza went still. Content for now, he drew back his sensing vines and they fell away from Baxter, unnoticed. His jailors had seen nothing.
La Senza now had the chance he’d been craving for centuries, so many lifetimes of plotting and scheming. He knew nothing of the young man he had inspected so intimately – frankly, he didn’t care. It was the body, oh his body, so young and fit; teeth clean like white mice, no trace of Popery, no hint of Lutheran, Baptist, Jew, Muslim or Buddhist within his empty soul, nothing to restrain or inhibit the Inquisitor’s foul purposes. La Senza knew that his escape was mere days away. Immobile, he marshalled dark reserves for the events to come.
‘Nunc me vacua est anima mea praeparata et redditur supersunt, La Senza venit, et possident me! Sincere vestrum, Christopher Baxter,’ finished Chris, with a flourish.
‘Bravo Mr Baxter,’ said Ascot McCauley, standing as he clapped enthusiastically. ‘Bravo! ’
‘How was I?’ said Baxter, grinning like a fool.
‘Marvellous! I’m sure my brothers will join me in saying how suitable you have proven to be Mr Baxter, most suitable indeed.’ As Ascot spoke, his eyes caught a faint flicker of purple snaking away from Baxter and back through the keyhole of the glass cabinet behind him.
‘Really? Thanks!’ said Baxter, naively thinking ahead to a glittering future.
‘Christopher, I’d like to welcome you to McCauleys, estate agents and developers,’ said Ascot, as his two brothers stood and nodded vigorously in agreement.
‘Thank you!’ said Baxter earnestly. ‘I promise I’ll put my body and soul into it.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ascot McCauley. ‘I’m quite certain you will.’
CHAPTER 14 – An inconvenient trut h
In the past, massage would have been strictly off the Barlow radar, lumped in with homeopathy, tarot and feng shui and far too new-age to contemplate. Not now. Newton was up for anything that could get the monkey off his back and he surrendered to Viv’s hands without a trace of scepticism. Newton, she had pointed out, was as lumpy and wound up as an old alarm clock and she relished slapping him onto the bed and removing three years of knots from his back with her bare hands. What a contrast, thought Newton, to his ex-wife, who’d been far more interested in inserting stress than removing it.
Tonight, following the day’s strangeness, Viv had been on a mission to calm Newton down. Despite his protestations, she’d boiled him in the bath then flattened him down upon his crisp clean bed and set to work with a purpose.
‘You’ve had a lot on,’ she said, attacking his rigid scapula. ‘It’s not surprising, what with one thing and another.’
‘Snnnggggggg,’ said Newton, trying to nod without dribbling.
‘You must have had a bit of an episode, you know, one of those out-of-body things.’
‘Noooo,’ he said, nearly coherently. ‘The car, the money, it’s all real.’ She placed her elbow in the small of his back. ‘Yowwwwwwww!’ said Newton, trying to express the inexpressible.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Viv, twanging him like a harp.
Newton had made up his mind to tell her about everything except Sixsmith. That would make him sound like a nut, no matter how understanding she was.
‘Why would anyone want to soup up your car, tidy your flat and put money in your account?’ she asked. ‘And more to the point, why would you mind? I mean if that were me I’d say ... bring it on!’
‘Blut it’s not normal is it, I mlean, there has to be slome klind of mlotive.’
‘What about Havotech? Maybe they’re feeling guilty and they’re trying to make up for things,’ suggested Viv, chasing a knot around Newton’s shoulder blade like a gerbil under a rug.
