The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 2
It was a terrible feeling, and it created in Dr Barlow the sort of mood that made him an absolute misery to be around. When his girlfriend Viv or his daughter Gabby wanted lightness, he supplied a darkness, a black hole of pessimism that could spaghettify an astronaut. He couldn’t let anything go if it held even the slightest hope of illumination, so he dug, dug, and dug again, picking at the smallest of details and driving everyone else mad.
Newton swore repeatedly that he’d drop the cantankerous behaviour this all generated, but he was a scratched record, and he knew it. Life around Newton Barlow often resembled a vet approaching the rear end of a honey badger with a thermometer.
Following the recent events at Muncaster Castle, Newton had made a promise he’d singularly failed to make good upon, a change in character that he simply wasn’t in a position to deliver. He tried to match the resignation of his co-workers, he really had, but it never washed, leaving Newton with a sense of isolation he had no safety valve to release. Caught in this revolving door, Newton kept digging for certainties his colleagues never tired of telling him didn’t exist.
His girlfriend, Viv, though, seemed to find it all huge fun, which made him feel far worse. It was even more pronounced now that she was working for Purgatory in her own right. While Newton faced each new supernatural event with a wincing abhorrence, Viv seemed to consider it entertainment … the stranger, the better. His old mentor, the late Dr Alex Sixsmith, was the worst offender. As a full-blown man of science, Newton felt Sixsmith should have known better, but his flippant reaction to the inconsistencies of the spirit world made Newton intellectually gyrate.
Unable to scratch the itch, Newton elected to keep his suffering a solitary affair. On nights like this, when Newton was alone on operations, he put time aside to try and make sense of the whole mad thing while keeping that word, that trauma, in its dirty little box.
Tonight, he was in the Welsh border town of Hay-on-Wye, the ‘town of books’, killing time before the morning operation. Newton was to procure three copies of a Necromancer’s handbook that had just popped up online. Typical of his tasks nowadays, it was a simple locate, buy, destroy mission aimed at ridding the material world of the means to chat with those who’d kicked the bucket. The appointment was set for 9:00 a.m. the following morning, so for now, Newton had no option but to lay there, following the cobwebs, willing his mind to stop searching itself for survivors.
But that word …. ‘trauma’.
It was such an indulgence, wasn’t it? Especially considering how much in the way of positives his new life contained. He was wealthy, in that money simply wasn’t an issue in any respect whatsoever because, if he needed something, anything … he got it. If something broke … it was mended, usually within hours. He even had all the help he needed with essential housekeeping, performed without comment by ghostly hands that outperformed the finest of living butlers. He’d resisted it at first out of a desire for personal privacy but had succumbed when it became just too convenient, too time-saving.
Plus, the missions themselves were demanding, intriguing and frequently nail-biting. They were definitely not boring; Newton was regularly shot at and threatened with torture, which was quite a distraction, and he was often face to face with the worst people in history, alive and deceased. This bridge between the living and the dead was as busy as it was bizarre, populated by the sinister and the well-meaning, wrestling for control of a universe that seemed far too close to the edge to be healthy.
But Newton was still Newton, a man who’d staked everything on a world-view in which there was nothing that couldn’t be understood, rationalised or measured. Yet here he now was, knee-deep in fairy tales, gobbledegook and hocus-pocus.
It didn’t fit.
It couldn’t fit.
Newton Barlow was a vegan butcher, a blind juggler, the right, wrong man in the wrong, right place at the right, wrong time.
He sighed, … loudly enough to stop the regulars talking in the bar downstairs, then picked up a sleeping tablet, sedatives recently being the only means of pulling out his power supply. Tomorrow, at least, he would be busy. That would help.
Newton turned out the light.
The thirty-five minutes of sleep Newton achieved did little to offset the combined impact of a bad night supercharged by his pill.
Over coffee and toast spread with marmalade, he’d pushed the distasteful pot of lemon curd out of sight behind the condiments, reflecting back to his aversion since childhood. He was forced by politeness to drink his grandmother’s sugar-free lemonade, a beverage with all the charm of battery acid. He watched the walls of the breakfast room float upwards, the windows strobing from his peripheral vision.
By eight, Newton was walking the empty streets, pumping his lungs up with cold Welsh air.
*****
Richard Booth declared the small Welsh town of Hay-on-Wye an independent kingdom on April Fool’s Day, 1977, making the place unique in all of Britain, if not the world.
It was all about … books.
‘King’ Richard opened the first of Hay’s secondhand bookshops soon after. Cannily, he imported container-loads of books from America, suddenly surplus as TV swamped the public’s attention and throttled the libraries. Other bookshops soon began to emerge from the dying shopfronts to join in the party, and in no time, a market town destined for obscurity had erupted into a bibliophile Mecca. Visitors came from far and wide to while away their afternoons in the bookstores and bustling tea shops.
Later, Booth launched a literary festival. It proved an instant hit, drawing in top authors and their adoring fans from all four corners of the globe. There were now bookshops everywhere you looked, each heaped high with dusty classics, pulp potboilers and glossy, table-thumping art books.
Newton had passed at least fifteen of these bookshops in as many minutes as he looped around the town, increasing his oxygen levels. However, he kept his distance from the sixteenth, hanging back until he was sure the proprietor was in residence. As the church clock struck nine, the sign on the door flipped from closed … to open.
Newton texted head office.
Ready to do business. Keep your eye on the bank account. It’s about to empty … N
A solitary tractor, the only movement on the cold road, rattled past. Newton waited for it to disappear, then took a last deep breath. He crossed, making sure he could be seen to be alone, a pre-condition of the meeting.
Nicholas Sleep Esq. Antiquarian Books and Ephemera, read the sign.
Sleep’s bookshop was dark both outside and in, projecting a gloom deeper than black onto the pavement. Newton peered through the glass past the ranks of Victorian volumes, eyes gradually adjusting enough to see that there were a few dim lights at the back of the dark interior.
Newton pushed the door, an old metal bell spasming a peel of alarm above him as he entered.
‘Dr Barlow?’ came a voice from the rear. ‘How very punctual.’
‘Don’t like to be late,’ answered Newton, his nostril filling with two lifetimes of dust. ‘It’s very unprofessional.’
‘You’ll find me back here,’ said the wheezy voice, followed by a dreadful hacking cough that sent shockwaves surging through the dust motes. ‘Unless you want to browse first, of course.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ replied Newton. ‘I’m only interested in the manuals.’ He passed deeper into the shop, eventually discovering the dealer in his cave, a grotto of rare books and curios that seemed to wrap around the bookseller like a womb. The man looked up from his ledger, his small, bloodshot eyes scrutinising Newton over half-moon spectacles. He could have been anywhere between thirty and seventy-five, his features bleached by an absence of natural light, a diet solely of fine cheese, artisan bread, and a daily bottle of port.
‘Alone?’
‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ answered Newton. ‘Worried I’d turn up mob-handed, were you?’
‘Possibly,’ answered Mr Sleep. ‘I like to do my transactions face-to-face. One face is more than enough, thank you very much.’
Newton, already weary of the man’s eccentricities, cut to the chase. ‘So, the books … you have them?’
‘May I offer you some refreshments before we begin? A lemon tea, perhaps.’
‘Lemon tea? No, can’t stand the stuff,’ Newton grimaced. ‘You have the books?’ he repeated.
‘Look around you, Mr Barlow. I have many, many books.’
‘Oh dear, here we go,’ muttered Newton. ‘The Necromancer’s handbooks, you claimed to have three.’
‘I did,’ answered the dealer. ‘And I do.’
‘I’d like to see them.’
‘You can see one,’ replied Sleep. ‘I’m only going to be selling you the one.’
‘But, you have … three,’ said Newton, stiffening.
‘You are not the only party interested,’ explained the dealer. ‘It’s hardly fair if I don’t let everyone have what they want, is it?’
‘I’m not really an everyone,’ said Newton. ‘I can outbid anyone you may have sniffing about. We … I … I want all three; that’s why I’m here.’
The dealer leant down to a drawer and pulled out a large padded envelope. He slapped it onto his paper-strewn with surprising, then fixed Newton with his watery eyes.
‘This is your copy.’
Newton reached out to take it, but before his fingers could close on the vellum, Mr Sleep swiftly pulled it away again.
‘I have looked at it, you know,’ he hissed. ‘And the others. I’m not an idiot, Mr Barlow. I can put two and two together. I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve had hot dinners, and I know something odd when I see it. What’s the story?’
‘Well, you found them. You tell me.’
‘They came as part of a job lot. No explanation, no back story. A house clearance in Ludlow is all I know. But you … you know more. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘I’m a collector,’ declared Newton, trying to make his eyes unreadable.
‘Have you any idea how often I hear that line?’ laughed the dealer. ‘Everyone’s a collector. Balderdash! There is more to this; this is more than mere … collecting. Why are these books of scribbles so desirable, eh? My inbox has been awash since I put them on the website. Every nutcase from here to Athens has been on my case, all offering me whatever I want. So, you tell me now. What’s the big deal? Are these treasure maps or something?’
‘Just rare,’ lied Newton, feigning disinterest. ‘Medieval silliness, it’s very in vogue right now.’
‘I know what’s in vogue, Dr Barlow. I’m a book dealer; it’s my business to know.’
‘Ah, so you are,’ agreed Newton.
‘So don’t try to bloody hoodwink me, sonny. I’ve got four other buyers making promises. I want to know what I’ve got here.’
‘I can imagine they are offering you a tidy sum,’ said Newton, ‘But I … we … we are willing to offer you enough to buy this shop ten times over … for all three.’
‘You are?’
‘Of course, we are. These books are not for mere private ownership, they’re for a museum, the, er … British Museum, in fact, … I expect. Sell them to private buyers, and that’s as good as burning them. We, I … whatever … us … we want these books studied by proper academics. We’re offering serious money to make sure that happens.’
‘But the books are identical,’
‘Right, … yes, of course, they are,’ said Newton, thinking on his feet. ‘Well, yes … and … no. You see, books of this kind contain subtle unique variations that tell us soooooo much about the period.’
‘And what period would that be then?’
‘Er … medieval?’
‘They’re dated 1673; it’s on the website,’ snorted the dealer.
‘Ah, right …. Well, I’m just the buyer,’ explained Newton. ‘I don’t pretend to know all the details myself. We leave all that stuff to the professors up at the museum. But they’ve told me that they absolutely must have all three of these 17th-century German ¬’
‘Dutch.’
‘– Dutch volumes …,’ Newton continued, rectifying himself. ‘Right. They must have all these 17th-century Dutch volumes for the collection, or they might never understand a few things they’ve been trying to … er … understand.’
Newton was flailing. He was tired, half-drugged, in a bad mood, and hadn’t bothered to suppress his ruminations sufficiently to concentrate on his mission. Now, looking like an idiot, he was falling over himself.
‘Mmmm, I don’t know,’ mulled the dealer. ‘You don’t sound very convincing. At least the other bidders are honest about their motives. They just want one book each so they can put them in their homes.’
‘I strongly doubt that,’ scoffed Newton.
‘What they do with them is their business,’ snapped Sleep. ‘I’m a book dealer, not a policeman.’
‘In it for the money then, eh?’
‘That a surprise? It’s a shop, isn’t it?’
‘Well, in that case, name your price and give me the books,’ suggested Newton, cutting to the chase. ‘Let’s not waste each other’s time.’
‘All three?’
‘Yes, all three,’ confirmed Newton, pulling out his company credit card.
‘Oh, …. I suppose …,’ said the dealer, wavering. ‘Ok.’
‘Finally,’ sighed Newton.
‘Yes, but not now,’ added Sleep, slapping his hand back down on the book.
Newton rolled his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Not here, … later,’ explained the bookseller. ‘I don’t have all three here anyway, and I don’t want to make a transaction like that through this shop. It’s far too big. Tax. … I’m sure you understand. I want … cash.’
‘I don’t even have a price yet,’ said Newton, slipping his card angrily back into his wallet, ‘So, how am I meant to pay you in cash? Besides, I doubt all the cash machines in Hay combined are going to have that in them.’
‘You can come back tomorrow,’ suggested the dealer. ‘That should be more than enough time to get my payment together.’
Newton sighed again. ‘Fine then … how much for the lot?
‘All three books … one-hundred-thousand.’
‘Whatever,’ declared Newton, now quite used to squandering the assets of his other-worldly employers.
‘Llanthony.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Llanthony. There’s an abbey,’ explained Mr Sleep. ‘Llanthony Abbey.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s on the road over the mountain,’ said the dealer. ‘The small road to Abergavenny. You can’t miss it. At night, there’s no one there; we won’t be disturbed. We do the deal there, and the nasty taxman need never know. After dark will be best, just after seven.’
‘All three books?’ asked Newton, narrowing his eyes.
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
Ten minutes later, Newton was back in his room, sulking, an extra night forcibly added to his stay.
‘Bennet?’ he asked his phone. ‘I hope you’re not busy in the morning. I need you to drive up to Wales and collect me from the hotel. I’m texting you the address now. My Citroën’s in the garage, before you ask. I need one hundred thousand in readies.’
‘What, Welsh Wales?’ asked the Reverend Bennet, Newton’s holy warrior.
‘Yes, Wales,’ replied Newton impatiently. ‘Where the dragons are. I’m in Hay-on-Wye. I’ve had to strike a deal to get those Necromancer manuals off the market, but the rotter won’t take a card, … tax issues and all that. I’m gonna have to hand him the cash in a suitcase, or the deal will fall through.’
‘I don’t know why they give us cards,’ complained Bennet. ‘No one ever takes them. One hundred thousand, you say?’
‘Yep, and I need it before the sun goes down.’
‘Do you need the need the Bonetaker?’ asked Bennet, offering the services of the Purgatorian giant, a Neanderthal of legendary muscle and infinite sensitivities.
‘Oh God, no. It’s a just a milk run. He’s asked for a handover in some ruined church. Anthony, something?’
‘Llanthony!’ exclaimed Bennet joyfully, ‘It’s got two ‘L’s at the front. It’s pronounced Hllllllanthony. I know that spot well from before I was ordained. We used to go there for picnics. I used to play the guitar. Oh, I could whack a tune out in those days … Let it be, Rivers of Babylon … I was ace!’
‘I bet you weren’t,’ said Newton flatly. ‘Can you get the cash or not?’
‘Yes,’ answered Bennet, stung, ‘I keep far more than that in the vaults for arms deals. Are twenties ok?’
‘Don’t care. Be here for six-thirty … before it gets dark.’
Some hours later, the vicar pulled up outside Newton’s hotel to be greeted with an appalled expression.
‘Hell’s bells, Bennet, what colour do you call that?’ Newton laughed derisively, pointing at the Reverend Bennet’s 15-year-old Ford C-Grand Max.
‘It’s lemon yellow. A custom paint order by the first owner. Why?’
‘Any colour that begins with the word “lemon” should be a warning sign,’ declared Newton.
‘Why? What’s wrong with lemons?’ asked the bewildered vicar.
‘What’s right with lemons?’ snorted Newton.
‘I’ve just driven all the way from Sussex and all you do is insult my car.’
‘It’s a car, is it? I thought it was a fairground dodgem.’
‘Well, do you want this lift or would you rather walk?’ Bennet replied, keeping his cool.
‘Ok, sorry, sorry,’ backtracked Newton. ‘I’ve just got a thing about lemons.’
‘Of course you have,’ the vicar replied soothingly.
*****
The Greek-registered freighter, battered by storms and smeared with streaks of rust, had wallowed close to Tristan da Cunha for five days, waiting for the neverng South Atlantic gales to slacken.
