 
## **CONTENTS**

Copyright

Prologue - London, 2004

Chapter One - Small Town Politics

Chapter Two - Old Friends?

Chapter Three - The arrival of the Saviour

Tea and Cakes

Chapter Four - Easter Monday

Chapter Five - Legal manouvers

Chapter Six - A new resolve

Chapter Seven - Up to town for the day

Chapter Eight - Confidentiality

Chapter Nine - High Finance

Chapter Ten - Missing presumed dead

Chapter Eleven - A criminal intent

Chapter Twelve - Raid

Chapter Thirteen - Gumshoe

Chapter Fourteen - Genealogy

Chapter Fifteen - Gumshoe II

Chapter Sixteen - Lunchtime coffee

Chapter Seventeen - Tommy

Chapter Eighteen - A German Interlude

Chapter Nineteen - A solution of sorts

Chapter Twenty - Summer Solstice

Chapter Twenty-One - Cecilia

Chapter Twenty-Two - Epilogue

Copyright © 2017 Mick Kelly

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To Sue of course

Donald Stevens thinks his life is defined by his job as a bank manager. He sometimes wishes he had enough imagination or drive to have a mid-life crisis. Even his divorce seems to leave him little in the way of options, other than drink and casual sex.

Then he has a chance meeting with an old college friend - what could be nicer than a weekend of reminiscing and catching up? He rapidly finds himself drawn into a world completely alien to his middle-class existence. An experience that will change his life for ever.
**Prologue**

_London, 2004_

'Jake - It is you, isn't it?'

The two men appraised each other from opposite sides of the Circle line carriage.

'Donnie - hiya'

There was little warmth in the returned greeting, but Donnie could understand why. It had been years since they were at college together, and their appearance highlighted the different paths they had taken in their time apart.

Jake's hair was in dreadlocks, streaked with grey, and his clothes were standard issue urban warrior - rainbow sweatshirt, combat pants, Doc Martens. He had multiple piercings in his ears and a sleeper in one nostril.

Donnie guessed that his own uniform of charcoal pin-stripe, black shoes and leather laptop bag might be the reason for the missing warmth. He was wearing a key-card on a lanyard around his neck, with a photo and the legend 'Donald Stevens, Branch Manager' under the corporate logo. Donnie suspected that this was going to be a brief meeting, but he pressed on.

'Must be fifteen years.'

An old woman looked up over her book and smiled at him, while everyone else in the carriage strenuously ignored them.

'Yeah, I guess – 1989, yeah?'

'22nd of August,' Donnie said – 'three days after my birthday'.

'Ha – I remember. Cider, brandy and Moroccan keef'

Jake pursed his lips and exhaled – you could almost see the blue smoke. He warmed a little towards Donnie with the memory.

'What ya doin?'

Donnie gestured at his clothes, feeling almost embarrassed.

'Bank – you?'

'Nothin' – Somethin', sometimes.'

They pulled into St Pauls as Donnie pulled out a business card with a well-practiced flourish.

'Jake, this is my stop – call me, yeah?' He thrust a business card into the hippy's hand. Jake looked at it as if it was a Jehovah's Witness leaflet.

'Yeah, sure, man.'

## **CHAPTER ONE**

### **_Small Town Politics_**

###

The offices of the Westwick Conservative Association were clean, sparse and modern, but somewhat lacking in character. Only the room reserved for the M.P. had a window which looked out onto the high street and the only decorations to be seen were a modest Union flag stuck in an antique ink-well on the M.P.'s desk and a portrait of Mrs Thatcher on the wall opposite the window. The outer offices were currently deserted except for the branch secretary.

Vicky sat at a functional modern desk in a windowless office staring unseeing at the computer, hands folded in her lap. A sign on the desk read 'Branch Secretary - Ms V. Springfield'. It was only useful for the rare visitor who reached this inner sanctum as all the members knew her well. She had been branch secretary since she was nineteen, and that was some considerable time ago.

She bit her lip as she re-read the round-robin email that Annie Webster had sent to everyone in the local branch.

_A message from your EX-candidate._

_My non-attendance at the recent selection meeting was known well in advance by Ms Springfield. I had mentioned it several times in conversation and the branch secretary was aware that I would be abroad at the time of the meeting. Ms Springfield makes much of my refusal to provide a statement of absence in writing. This was an oversight, I admit, but one caused by lack of familiarity with the rules and emphatically not evidence of either arrogance or contempt of the branch membership which she implies in her minutes. _

_The companions on my trip, two councillors and a headmistress, were and are appalled at the behaviour of those people attending the meeting - to choose to ignore my evident willingness to stand and then go ahead and de-select me! This was and is the height of arrogance. Of course I would have provided a statement if I had been given a fair chance. _

_I notified BOTH of the other Ward Councillors that I was away on a fact-finding trip, pointing out it was my first trip abroad for four years. As to the rest, surely common courtesy has precedence over the Conservative Party Rulebook. The notice of the selection meeting was sent out on 17th March when I was not in the country. Common courtesy - deliberately NOT engaged in this instance since Ms Springfield is a stranger to it - would have ensured that there was no necessity for all of this. Ms Springfield, no doubt has her reasons - all of which I can refute quite easily. However, why let truth get in the way of her version of democracy?_

_I have requested a re-run of the selection meeting. This re-run is as a direct result of the Branch Officers' decision to treat a democratically elected Councillor with contempt - it is also a result of petty bureaucracy, of which our party is, supposedly, a sworn enemy. I am being bullied by local officers using the rulebook in a wholly over-zealous manner._

_I am happy to talk to any of you who wish to discuss this with me further. I have no wish to over-burden our hard-working members with another selection meeting, but feel I have no option but to appeal to regional party H.Q. to enable the fair treatment to which I am entitled._

__

_Yours as ever_

_Ann Webster_

_Your CURRENT councillor_

_Westwick ward_

Vicky had only applied the rules as they were written. She felt that Annie had quite gone beyond the bounds of decency in sending the email. It was all so unnecessary. If Annie had informed the party of her holiday in writing - as stipulated quite clearly in the rulebook - it could all have been avoided. Of course it was true that Vicky had responded to Annie's absence at the selection meeting by stating that she should be de-selected - that was what the rules said. Vicky had no desire to see Annie deselected but she did have a way of rubbing Vicky up the wrong way. Vicky had hoped to make her point and move on, but Grayson had insisted that they should vote there and then and it was, inevitably, Grayson who had been selected by the few members present.

She knew Grayson had been more than a little worse for wear - she could smell the whisky six feet away. Indeed once he had finished gloating over the victory he seemed a little taken aback that he had won. She suspected that he had only done it because, in his somewhat tipsy state, it seemed like a good way to upset Annie and her husband, Jack.

There seemed to be a constant battle for supremacy between Jack Webster, a local builder, and Grayson Tayle. Now she had been caught up in it.

Grayson was an editor at Tayle and Watkins - he was the grandson of the publishing firm's founder Jonathan Tayle - a fact of which Grayson made everyone very much aware. He also ensured, without actually saying so, that he did not need to work for money, unlike Jack.

Jack was proud of his rise from bricklayer to, as he was fond of saying, 'the biggest name in aspirational housing'. Sandon and Webster had been a big employer in the town during the building of the Valley Farm estate. Vicky thought the commuting village something of an eyesore, but she held no animosity towards Jack - though he was very likely to believe she did, now.

From now on Annie and the others would see her as an ally of Grayson - maybe even one of the many silly women who gazed moon-struck at his craggy chin and his flowing brown hair and who delighted in his cut-glass patrician's voice, heavy with literary allusions. She coloured at the thought.

It was all such a mess.

Grayson Tayle swilled the whisky around in the heavy glass. Chivas Regal, not exactly his favourite tipple, but the best you could expect from the Websters. He breathed the fumes with his sizeable nose, but refrained from sipping. At this time of the day, he kept the ratio of sniffing to sipping on the high side.

Annie was out, of course. She was not good at handling conflict and had obviously delegated her husband to put Grayson in his place.

Grayson sat in the well-sprung white leather armchair and watched Jack Webster's back as he stood looking out through the french windows onto the neat south-facing garden. Lawn, regimented flower beds, water feature - courtesy of the same landscaping company that had supplied most of the gardens in the gated executive development. Grayson remembered the place when it had been part quarry, part brickworks - he rather preferred it in that guise. He swallowed a thimbleful of the sweetish brown liquid, promising himself a good shot of Islay when he returned home.

'You know she's been a councillor for over four years now. Never thought she would be deselected like that. Her Dad had been an M.P., you know.' Webster had turned to face him.

Grayson remembered Annie's father Alan Sandon - the pompous old bastard. High up in the masons, finger in every municipal construction in the town. It still gave Grayson pleasure to remember when the Right Honourable Alan Sandon lost most of his fortune in the stock market crash of '74. Sandon had the vast majority of the shares in his building company, of course, but he needed the cash and Grayson's father had picked up quite a slug of them at rock bottom prices. Grayson was still spending the money from the dividends. However the dividends had been decreasing for a number of years. After marrying Annie, Jack had taken the lead in Sandon's firm and profits had increased - though dividends remained somewhat emaciated.

Lately Grayson's family firm had been doing even worse than usual. Poetry was not a big earner and their ventures into other publishing spheres had not gone well.

Grayson had engineered Annie's deselection just for fun, but maybe he could use it to lever a little cash out of Jack's pudgy fingers and into his own rather more elegant ones.

'Very little I can do, Jack. You and I might bend the rules - but Vicky is rather a stickler.' He always noticed how his own accent and phraseology climbed towards Wodehousian levels when talking to Webster. Well, his father had paid through the nose for his son's education and what would be the point of that if he couldn't lord it over tradesmen?

'Are you really going to stand for the council?' Webster turned to point his gimlet eyes at his guest.

'Well, I would be performing something of a caretaker role for your good lady, obviously - but I feel that now I have been chosen - noblesse oblige and all that. I'm sure it will only be for the one term.' Grayson raised his glass, enjoying the sight of Webster's thinning lips and reddening complexion.

'Couldn't you talk to that woman. Get her to do a re-run. Them buggers in London have said it's a matter for the branch - discretion of the branch secretary.'

'You know Victoria - lives her life by the Good Book - the Constituency Association Handbook for Elected Officials. None may sin against its commandments without fear of being cast into the outer darkness.'

Webster did not appreciate the joke. He understood the concept of irony but thought it an affectation of the elite, and felt that the main reason for its use was to exclude people like him, who preferred plain speaking.

Grayson was well aware of this. At some point he would stand down in favour of Annie in order to pursue his own rather grander political ambitions. Grayson Tayle M.P. sounded fine, Councillor Grayson Tayle sounded like a pain in the derrière. But before he stood down, he was going to enjoy the Websters' discomfort to the full. Grayson sipped a little more of the sweet liquid and breathed in the fumes, relaxing into the white leather.

'Perhaps I could have a word with the good lady. Perhaps if I made it known that I was not too opposed to the selection meeting being re-run - well....' He spread his hands and shrugged to indicate his powerlessness. Webster bit hard at the worm on Grayson's hook.

'That would be so good of you Grayson, very kind - very kind indeed.'

Grayson sipped a little more and relaxed a little more.

'Nicely set up, these little houses,' he said, gesturing toward the garden. 'I like the way the garden is not overlooked by the other properties - very clever.'

'Ah, design, Grayson - we laid out a fortune on the architects. They spent a fair few days on the layout. Based on a logarithmic spiral, apparently.'

'Hmmm - logarithms never my strong point,' Grayson said.

'Me neither - I stopped at the twelve times table,' Webster said, with a display of mateyness that was wasted on Grayson.

'Another whisky?' Grayson shook his head and grasped the glass in both hands, leaning forward and looking up at the still-standing Webster.

'You know, the annual meeting of Sandon and Webster Construction is coming up shortly. It might be an idea to have a little discussion of finances in advance of the actual meeting - dividend levels and all that - I know some of the other investors have been making noises about the low level of dividends recently.'

Webster gulped as the nature of the transaction became clear.

'And you know, that latest development on the land next to my estate...'

'I have promised to landscape that end of the estate to shield your view - I always take your interests seriously - and it's only twenty-five houses - hardly a significant change to the surrounding area.'

'We will have to agree to differ, Jack. But I do note that the cash involved in such an enterprise could perhaps be better spent supporting the share price of the company, by issuing a reasonable dividend? Not that I'm an expert of course, but one does wonder...'

Rutter and Son Solicitors had been a fixture on Westwick's high street for over seventy years. Situated above the butcher's, the first floor offices were functional, though the furniture was a little scuffed in places, the carpet a little worn and the paintwork in need of refreshing.

As the 'Son' of 'Rutter and Son', Anthony Rutter had already lived longer than his father, the firm's founder. His only child, Rebecca, was not only female but completely uninterested in the law. However, Anthony was of the opinion that 'Rutter and Son' had a gravitas that 'A. Rutter' did not.

Mr Rutter rose from behind the mahogany edifice of his desk, holding out his liver-spotted hand to the advancing bulk of Jack Webster.

'Jack - thank you for stopping by.'

A smile stretched the solicitor's thin mouth across the pale grey skin of his face which was framed with near-white hair, neatly cut. His pale blue eyes were almost grey and toned nicely with the charcoal suit, white shirt and blue tie that comprised his working uniform.

'My pleasure Anthony, my pleasure.' Jack Webster grasped the hand firmly and shook it emphatically, while the solicitor's hand remained limp and somewhat damp in the builder's plump fingers. Once the builder had released his hand, Rutter gestured at the visitor's chair and Webster sat heavily on the uncomfortable looking straight-backed seat.

'I have the contracts for the land prepared and awaiting your signature. I will have young Julie bring them through for you.' He picked up the phone and was about to press the key pad when Webster held up a hand to interrupt.

'There's a bit of a problem, I'm afraid.' He looked around the almost bare office to avoid the solicitor's pale eyes. He rose from the chair and turned to gaze out of the window.

'I've decided not to proceed.'

The solicitor nodded gravely and returned the phone to the cradle, pursing his lips and taking a moment or two to collect his thoughts. He was about to speak when Jack continued.

'Circumstances have changed, and I have decided to look around for a more, erm - a less intrusive development site.'

Mr Rutter digested the information and was about to speak again, when Jack continued.

'Certain influential individuals have indicated their opposition to the project and...'

'Mr Tayle, I presume?' Now it was the solicitor's turn to interrupt. He also rose from his chair, feeling uncomfortable gazing up at the smaller man.

'I know he was rather opposed to the development.' Tayle was one of his clients and had sounded him out about any legal routes to blocking Webster's plans. He did not regard the information as confidential - half the town were aware of the friction between the two men.

The builder held up a fat palm once more. It was his preferred method of dealing with other people's conversation. The board of his company, the kids, the in-laws - were all familiar with his hand's pink folds.

'It's a question of finance, Anthony, finance. I want to thank you for your efforts - as always you have done a sterling job and the bill will be settled in full.'

After a three-month, delay thought the solicitor but he held his peace - he would get the money eventually and his rates included a provision for Webster's habitual late payment.

'I will be looking for another suitable piece of development land - but with a view to commencing any financial transactions in the new fiscal year.' He pursed his lips and let out a sigh - letting go of the twenty-five executive homes with double garages, feature gardens, tasteful decoration and top of the range kitchens. He sat down opposite Rutter and placed his elbows on the desk. Rutter sat down in turn - it looked as if the builder was about to confide in him.

'I'm sorry this has come so late in the proceedings but it was beyond my control. I pride myself on being a man of my word.' The solicitor tried desperately to avoid raising an eyebrow at that and failed, but fortunately Webster had turned to look reflectively out of the window and on to the high street.

'Well - I wonder if Townend Farm might be of interest?'

Abruptly Webster turned back to the solicitor.

'Townend? Is that the one on the London road - that organic place?'

'It has come up in discussions. But I have a duty of confidentiality in the matter.' In fact, Rutter had had no discussions about Townend farm for many years but it had been on his mind recently as his retirement approached. A task undone. A responsibility undischarged, he felt. A slightly pained look passed across his face and there was a pause while he conducted some kind of internal conversation, with his eyes averted from Webster's. He appeared to come to a conclusion and looked the builder in the eye.

'There may be a way to resolve your problems with land and with Mr Tayle. I will seek some clarification and be in touch with you.'

The following day, the uncomfortable visitor's chair was graced by the rather more urbane presence of Grayson Tayle. Composed and unhurried, in his old but perfectly tailored suit, he sat opposite the solicitor and waited patiently.

Anthony Rutter held the yellowing paper gently in his left hand. With the forefinger of his right, he traced Cecilia Thompson's signature to the tenancy agreement. Those long-gone days had started to prey on his mind recently. The last time Rutter danced with Cecilia was at a fund-raiser for the local branch of the Conservative Party. Grayson would have been about ten then, running around offering little white triangles of sandwiches to the revellers and generally getting in the way of the waltzing.

How would his life have turned out, he wondered, if Cecilia had agreed to be his wife? Felicity was everything a solicitor's wife should be but there were times when the ghost of what might have been returned to trouble the tranquil nature of his life. The solicitor reluctantly hauled himself back to the present.

'You see Grayson, although I could make assumptions about your cousin's wishes in her absence, I would prefer to consult with your good self to ensure that I am discharging my duties to the family in a manner coincident with your collective desires.'

'By collective, I take it you mean Cecilia and I?'

'Indeed.'

'Well, I can't answer for my cousin, not having seen her for over fourteen years, but if you would like to inform me of your intentions I can answer for myself.'

Grayson had always thought Anthony a pompous bastard, but believed he was equal to the challenge of conversing with him. The solicitor listened to him and paused for a second or two before proceeding.

'The current tenants of Townend Farm have been in default with their - admittedly small - rent for some time. In fact, I have received no payments and have had no indication that the monies are being lodged elsewhere.'

Grayson nodded.

'I wonder if, in these circumstances, your cousin would be better served by requesting them to quit. It might then be possible to acquire a more reliable and more lucrative source of income from the land?'

Grayson nodded again.

'I am aware that the builder Jack Webster - I believe you know him?'

Grayson nodded.

'Jack Webster will be looking for a development plot in the near future, and this may be a possible use to which the land may be put to yield a reasonable return.'

Grayson regarded him for a moment with a quizzical look.

'Surely you could not sell a parcel of land that you don't have title to?'

'Although my contract with your cousin was verbal, my belief is that she entrusted me to look after her interests. My retirement cannot be postponed very much longer, and I would see it as a matter of urgency that I discharge my personal obligations soon. If I had your support in this matter, I would have no hesitation in presenting a writ to the land registry requesting a power of attorney, in this case.'

'I would also note that, as next of kin, it would be promoting your own interests, should your cousin perish or, indeed, be assumed to have perished.'

Grayson turned over the inelegant phrase 'What's in it for you?' in his mind before composing a more suitable one.

'And your interests in this, apart from the satisfaction of a job well done?'

'I would expect no financial reward, above and beyond the normal expenses of processing this writ, etc. Plus, perhaps, a consideration for the stewardship during the last sixteen or so years.'

'Money grabbing old goat' Grayson thought, but even so the attraction of obtaining money from Jack Webster as a dividend, a land sale, and, no doubt, several further dividends, made him rather warm to the old man.

Rutter made to stand, simultaneously extending a limp hand in a well practiced gesture of dismissal, but Tayle remained seated, and his hands remained in his lap.

'There is one obstacle that I can see', Grayson said. 'Planning permission - I know Webster and he's an impatient bastard.' The solicitor sat down again, wincing at the unnecessary swearing.

'I believe that the current inhabitants have erected some dwellings which have been standing for a number of years. They were granted permission on the grounds of housing a number of agricultural workers.' It had been Rutter's last meeting with Cecilia - handing her the documents and accepting the cheque from her lovely sun-browned hands. 'It should not prove too much of a hurdle, given that precedent - and with the goodwill of yourself, Mrs Webster and other party members - the planning committee may well view the proposals in a favourable light. Especially as the interested parties are two such party stalwarts.'

## **CHAPTER TWO**

### **_Old Friends?_**

###

It was to be two years since their chance encounter on the tube when Jake finally phoned Donnie. Donnie had gotten off the tube thinking of the past – 1989 had been the year that he had graduated with a two-two. Jake had sat his exams to avoid losing his grant, but he had no intention – and no chance – of passing them. Donnie had narrowly missed a two-one, but in those days a two-two in economics was an ideal passport to the bank.

He thought about his days behind the counter, waiting for the fast-track graduate program to whisk him off to Head Office. Then the Derivatives Division - he couldn't really hack the maths but at least he had met Sarah. She had never known his college friends - just as well, really. Not that she was straight-laced, but she wasn't fond of drinking and had a very dim view of drugs - surrounded as they were in Canary Wharf by the finest of Bolivian and Columbian produce.

They had started off well - plans for a family - 'when they could afford it' - a nice town house in London - 'when the market was right' - a country retreat - 'once they were established' - a nice car, and nice clothes and nice holidays - the list of dreams went on and on, until they realised that Donnie's fast-track promotion was slowing down rapidly and Sarah's had never really started. So, ten years married, they were living in a flat in North London that took their combined salaries to afford, a car that was older than their relationship and as for a family - well, you had to have sex for that.

During the course of the last two years, things had deteriorated rapidly. Sarah hated her job, hated the flat, and hated him for his lack of ambition and drive. She started to regard their years together as a waste of time. When she looked in the mirror at a care-worn thirty-five-year-old childless woman, she blamed him for that, too. He wanted to make things better, but just did not know how. He shared her opinion about himself. He could see himself in this dead-end job until he was old enough to pull his pension - probably still in the same branch, the same flat and the same stale relationship under the same grey London skies. He had the feeling that Sarah would have been looking for a new man, if she hadn't been so depressed about the woman she saw in the mirror.

She had been working in head-office on customer complaints and queries when a job came up in Leeds heading up the call-centre. 'Complex Queries' they called it, and she had five years experience already. She spent nights with the spreadsheets working out how much they would gain by selling up and buying a house in the North.

He had objected that he didn't want to move up North, and she had said, with a degree of coldness that appalled him, that she hadn't asked him to go, but she was going and she would rather go alone. And that was that - minus a couple of months of arguments, solicitors and estate agents.

So 2006 started with him seeing in the New Year alone in the same flat in the same part of London, Sarah having decamped for Leeds some six months earlier. He had re-mortgaged the flat to buy her out and buy him some time to contemplate the future.

Movie stars and musicians have enough money and time to have 'breakdowns' – bank managers just acquire a drink problem and a series of unsuitable women to relieve them of the money they haven't yet pissed away.

By the time Jake phoned him, one Wednesday afternoon in early April, Donnie was more or less broke, nearly homeless and almost jobless. By coming to an arrangement on the mortgage repayments, he had attracted the attention of the bank's HR department – bank employees can't have debt problems, for obvious reasons - so he was under suspicion and subject to a written agreement on how he was to pay it all off and return to credit-worthy sainthood. Fortunately he had had the sense to take out a couple of credit cards with other banks, to hide some of his debts, just a few weeks before the summons.

The bank had also moved him from customer-facing duties to a back-office role in accounts administration - not in any sense a promotion.

'Donnie – how are you off for money?' – it was Jake's second sentence of the phone call – pleasantries having taken all of four words.

'Well – I've got enough for a pint, but I'll have to skip the crisps.' There was no point in Donnie beating round the bush.

'Ah, right – I thought you was looking pretty sharp last time.'

'Two years ago I had a bit to spare – but you'll have to go and see the ex-wife if you want any of that cash.'

He was lying, really – she hadn't taken a penny off him that she wasn't entitled to. He'd bought her out of the flat by remortgaging and they had split their savings fifty-fifty. She was living fine on that, now with her new man. Home-cooked meals and a couple of glasses of wine every night. Donnie, on the other hand...

'Yeah, well it was worth a shot.' Jake was obviously about to hang up. It would have been best to have let him – but it was a Wednesday night, and Wednesday night was party night in the Stevens household – so long as the man of the house could persuade anyone to drink with him.

'Where are you?'

'Liverpool Street.'

'Why don't we meet for a drink? – Blackfriars?'

'Can't afford it, man.' No-one had called Donnie 'man' for twenty years – matter of fact, the last person to do so was probably Jake.

'Well, I'll pay – so long as we stay clear of the Dom Perignon.'

So there they sat, surrounded by suits. Thanks to Jake's appearance they had a table to themselves, as they worked their way through five pints of Guinness each – though a couple of times Jake filled up Donnie's glass from his, so it may have been six pints for Donnie, to Jake's four. Donnie was amused to find that Jake's Home Counties accent had now fully mutated into a London streetwise patois that Jake's parents would have had trouble following. He was born in Guilford, but a blind observer would have located him somewhere between Kingston, Jamaica and Willesden Junction. His hair was a little greyer than last time they met, but still in dreadlocks that fell to his shoulders. He had filled out since their days at college - his 'Alien' tee-shirt clearly showing the muscles of his chest and arms. Donnie had also filled out a little since college days - but it was regrettably only around his midriff.

Conversation mainly consisted of Donnie reminiscing and Jake grunting. When Donnie finally cottoned on that Jake might be interested in more recent times, Donnie gave him chapter and verse on his divorce, to a chorus of grunts from Jake.

Throughout Donnie's monologue, and in spite of the growing influence of the Guinness, he found himself unconsciously adopting the 'listening pose' and inviting Jake's input to the conversation by gentle and non-confrontational probing of his current situation. The trainers on the bank's Personal and Group Development course would have been extremely proud.

Although Jake's answers were mostly mono-syllables, Donnie still managed to gather that he was living in the wilds of Essex with a gang of other drop-outs.

'A commune – right'

'Nah, just people – y'know.'

Jake had a woman (his words) – Bryony – and a kid – Sunshine – cats, dogs and a donkey. Some other wild-life too, but unspecified.

'Sounds like a farm – a smallholding?'

'Hmm – dunno - more spiritual, y'know.'

It seemed that whatever the community was, it was facing eviction. Jake was in London trying to raise some cash to fight the eviction. Donnie had been his first port of call and Jake looked on unhappily as they drank away a bit more of the money he had hoped to extract from Donnie.

As Donnie half-expected, Jake had nowhere to stay in London, so he took the hippy back to the flat for a fry-up – eggs, bacon, beans and some fried potatoes – 'I'm a veggie, man, but don't let me stop you'. Donnie put the bacon back in the fridge. Cursing himself for being easily led, he took the veggie option too.

Home for Donnie was the two-bed flat in what he called Hampstead, but the Post Office called Frognal. The spare bedroom was a 'Home Office' – meaning it was a place Donnie now occasionally worked when the hangover made the tube completely impossible to face, so Jake dossed on the sofa-bed – his snoring rattling the windows when Donnie got up for a pee in the middle of the night. He was awake before Donnie and had a cup of tea ready when he had finished his shave and shower.

'Any porridge?' was his greeting – though Donnie assumed he'd been through the cupboards and already knew the answer.

'Frosties?' Donnie said and Jake looked at him a little like Sarah used to. Jake settled for toast – it was brown bread, at least – and honey – Donnie didn't tell him that the honey dated back to when Sarah left - but it seemed to keep ok.

As Donnie drank the tea and crunched the cereal he started to pick through what they had talked about over last night's fry-up.

'You tried Citizen's Advice?'

'They said we need a lawyer. They can evict us if they give us enough notice, so they say. Need a brief to find a loophole.'

'Can't you get a no-win, no-fee?'

'Not for property law, man. They don't do it. Anyway – thanks for the beer and the...' he made an inclusive gesture that took in toast crumbs, sofa and tea bags.

'Where are you off to?'

'I've got a couple of other people to call – should have done it yesterday, really.' Donnie guessed Jake had still been hoping to get a grand or two out of him.

'You know I'd help if I could.'

'Sure, man.'

So, after Donnie had cleaned up and stacked the dishwasher, they trekked down to the tube and parted company at Camden Town.

That's that for another fifteen years, Donnie thought.

## **CHAPTER THREE**

### **_The arrival of the Saviour_**

###

Opening the car door let in the sound of a pack of dogs – big, small and intermediate he guessed, from the pitch of the barks. It also let in the smell – rich farmyard odours that took Donnie back to his childhood in Yorkshire. He had stopped on the track in front of a metal gate, on which a two-foot square of plywood announced 'Rainbow Foundation' in Celtic lettering on a background of blue with white clouds and multiple rainbows.

The sound of the dogs was fast approaching, so he stayed his impulse to open the gate, and waited. The dogs arrived quickly, but he was surprised to see that there were only three of them, staying just beyond the cattle grid and barking at the gate in chorus. The biggest was a grey-muzzled Labrador, the smallest a nasty looking mongrel terrier. Three parts Yorkie, one part rat, by the look of it, he thought. The middle position was occupied by a collie, outdoing its pack-mates in barking frequency and the height of its jumps.

Donnie waited and was rewarded after one or two minutes by the appearance of an Amazon. She was over six foot tall, dressed in green wellies, pink flowered cotton trousers, and a short-sleeved camouflage shirt over what was evidently a bra-less chest of considerable size that had long given up the struggle with gravity. Her pale brown hair was streaked with purple highlights and it framed a friendly, gap-toothed face that regarded him quizzically. He stepped out of the car and approached the gate somewhat gingerly.

'Are you from Rutter's? – we won't let you in without a court order.' Her accent was a surprise – he was expecting rural Essex, whatever that was - but it wouldn't have been out of place in a Sloane Square drawing room, and her tone was welcoming even if the words were not.

'No – I'm Donnie Stevens – I'm a friend of Jake's'

'Really? - Does he know you're coming?' she looked at him even more quizzically – He found that puzzling. After some thought he had dressed in jeans and his most colourful dress-down Friday shirt. He had thought he might fit in with Jake's friends.

'Yes, I phoned yesterday.'

She opened the gate and pointed. 'Park by the Land Rover. I'll tell him you've arrived.'

The dogs stayed on the other side of the cattle grid and parted reluctantly to let him drive in, trotting behind the car all the way to the distressed-looking Land Rover. He got out and the dogs surrounded him – excited, rather than aggressive – and the collie jumped up and landed its paws on his thighs, anointing the clean denim with mud, while he scratched its ears and slapped its side. This encouraged the Labrador to butt him in a good-humoured gesture while the Yorkie-rat bared its teeth and crept towards his ankle. He kept the threat at bay by opening the driver's door on his car and sitting down. The dogs queued up outside, but the labrador and collie monopolised his stroking and ear-scratching.

Donnie didn't know quite why he had landed up on Easter Saturday in a farmyard, but he did know how. As Jake had called him from his mobile, he had Jake's number. He called Jake back two days after their chance meeting to see how it had gone. The call had been answered by a Welsh, female, voice.

'Rainbow Foundation, ground station, serving the nation – how can I help you today?'

'Sorry – I thought this was Jake's number.'

'Mr J - he's on his way - Mr who-shall-I-say?'

'Donnie – Donnie Stevens.'

Well he expected a touch of weirdness. As he waited, he realised that he was nervous - but did not know what he was nervous about. He was just taking the chance to see an old mate from college. What would make him nervous about that?

He had guessed that Jake had been in touch with whoever he could turn up from college days. Donnie was still in contact with a few of them, and had supplied Jake with their numbers. He doubted if any of them would oblige. Jake also had a couple of other addresses - probably out of date. Donnie had wished him luck, but without much expectation of him having any success. They had all been economics students, and you don't study, dream about and single-mindedly pursue money in order to waste the precious stuff helping out a hippy with legal problems.

Rather guiltily, Donnie knew that even if he had retained any cash, he would not have admitted the fact to Jake.

As predicted, it hadn't gone well. Jake had gone back that day more or less empty-handed. Donnie remembered from their conversation that Jake needed the money to fight an eviction order, but the details were hard to retrieve from his memory – several pints of Guinness tending to clothe the world in a delightful fog of amnesia.

'Why dontcha come down and have a look round?' Jake had said at the end of their brief conversation. Donnie expected that Jake still thought it might be possible to tap him for some cash. He knew that there was nothing to get from him, but he was bored to death with the life he was living - work, drink, hangover, work. What did he have to lose?

'Love to - how about Easter?' They completed the arrangements, and Easter Saturday found Donnie heading out to Essex to the 'Foundation' - whatever that was. He had completed his accountancy courses at the bank so he had agreed to look over their accounts. He had tried to minimise Jake's expectation of what he could do, but he could tell that Jake was ready to clutch at any straws that were available.

So here he was, sitting in his car breathing in the farmyard smells that had plagued his childhood, surrounded by dogs.

He was relieved when Jake arrived with the Amazon, and the dogs turned their attention to the hippies.

'Donnie – the man o' the moment', Jake said, shouting to be heard over the barking . Donnie held out his hand, feeling foolish, but Jake grasped it cross-wise, as if he was about to arm-wrestle with him, and squeezed, pinching Donnie's flesh with his thumb-ring.

'This is Danu.' He gestured at the Amazon, who nodded.

'Nice to meet you Donnie - I'll leave you two to catch up - I've got to see to the goats. C'mon Mikey, c'mon Spikey.' She walked off with the yorkie and collie obediently trotting in her wake. The labrador butted Jake and Donnie as they walked in the opposite direction.

Jake led him past a small farmhouse - brick with flint in-fill that looked quite inviting with its kitchen garden and green-painted back door. They talked inconsequentially about Jake's attempts in London to raise capital - who he'd visited, how fat or bald they were now, and how each had declined - with great sympathy - an opportunity to invest in Jake's organic box delivery service. Most had pressed a ten or twenty pound note into his hand, so at least Jake had come away with something.

They passed the farmhouse and approached an altogether odder building. Seemingly rising in a single storey from the earth itself, it was rounded at every angle, with large windows on either side of a plank door to the left side of the building. From the right hand window to the end of the building was a large lean-to conservatory, inside which tomato plants were already showing green fruits along with other plants that Donnie - almost completely lacking in gardening knowledge - didn't recognise.

'Interesting building', Donnie said and Jake stopped to let him admire it.

'It's an Earthship.' Donnie looked quizzical, so Jake explained.

'The thinkin' comes from California. It's made of tractor tyres, filled and covered with packed earth. Adobe on th' outside and lime plaster inside. Warm in winter, cool in summer, easy on th'eye and easy on resources - beautiful.' He smacked his lips in appreciation of the brown mound.

He opened the door and ushered Donnie in. The labrador sunk down onto the ground outside and watched them sorrowfully. Inside the Earthship light flooded in from the windows. A big space - maybe fifteen yards across and approximately circular - had the feeling of a tent. Two doors led off to the right and the room had a wood-burner in the centre, with a black pipe leading straight up to the roof some ten foot above.

Around it, a variety of beanbags lay unoccupied apart from one which contained a dark-haired, brown-skinned woman and an eight or nine-year old girl. They were jointly reading a book, which the woman lowered as they entered.

'Welcome to the Foundation, Donnie', she said, her Welsh accent making a song of the phrase. Jake put an arm around Donnie's shoulder.

'Yeah - this is the man - and here we've got Bryony and Sunny.' He went over and kissed the woman - Bryony, Donnie assumed - before picking up Sunny bodily and swinging her round as she held on to the book, giggling. He dumped her on another beanbag.

'You reading that astrology again, Sunny?'

'Astronomy! It's astronomy, Jake!' Sunny shook a finger at him in mock rebuke - it was obviously a regular complaint. Jake shook his head in mock despair.

'Where did we go wrong?' He looked at Donnie, winking. 'We brought her up like a nice little Gemini - moon-bathing to feed her intuition, let her sleep on ley lines, feng-shui'd her bedroom - everything - and she still wanna be a scientist.'

'Nope' she said 'an astronaut.'

'Well good luck, Sunny', Donnie said, and she gave him a smile before going back to the book.

The next hour or so was a bit of a blur as Donnie was whisked around the farm being introduced to the various inhabitants. He could remember Angel and her two boys - mainly because Angel was by far the best looking woman on the site. Her curly black hair was cut just below her chin and her brown skin and red lipstick accentuated her sharp cheekbones. She was slightly plump and she filled her tight jumper and jeans in a way that made Donnie uncomfortably aware that it had been several weeks since his last, rather unsatisfactory, encounter with a woman.

Angel, her father and her sons were travellers who had pitched up a few years ago and stayed on, more for the convenience than for any spiritual reason - which Jake explained without any ill feeling - but Donnie got the distinct impression that they were not as close to Jake as Bryony, Sunshine and Danu. Angel and the boys lived in a smaller version of the Earthship, opposite a labourer's cottage that stood by the farmhouse, while her father, Tony, lived in a static caravan nearby. They knocked at the caravan, but it was empty.

The cottage was occupied by two lads in their late twenties. Jake knocked on the front door of the cottage, dislodging several flakes of ancient paint, and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. He and Donnie stood in a small vestibule filled with old wellies, waterproofs, spades and a collection of rusted and muddy tools. Jake ushered Donnie in to the gloom of the front room.

The open fire held a couple of burning logs, giving the room an air of cosiness. The two lads sat on an old sofa, with a tabby cat curled up between them. An older-looking woman in a stripy jumper and faded jeans was just rising from an easy chair. At least Donnie thought she looked older, but it was actually the fact that she seemed to have no teeth that made him assume that - she could have been any age. Her hair was dark and her eyes a deep brown, her pale skin was smooth but marred by deep worry lines that bracketed her thin lips.

She looked at him with a startled expression, then turned and disappeared through another door opposite the one he and Jake had entered by.

One of the lads was slim and pale with long thinning hair, the other stocky and heavily sun-burnt with an almost shaven head. The first looked up towards Donnie but somehow looked past him smiling nervously. The stocky one stared straight at Donnie, meeting his gaze with an expressionless face.

Jake folded gracefully into a lotus position on the floor to the left of the fire, indicating that Donnie could take the seat that the woman had just vacated - a big overstuffed chair that proved to have some sharp springs quite close to the leather surface of the back. He sat forward, nodding to the two lads on the sofa.

'I hope we weren't disturbing...' Donnie started, pointing at the door.

'Don't mind Frankie - she doesn't like strangers', Jake said evenly

The aggressive-looking one held his eyes in a vice-like stare. Donnie avoided his eyes by looking at Jake sitting serenely, on the floor.

Jake pulled out a tobacco tin and started rolling, long practice evident in the smooth and swiftly-produced joint. He lit up and noisily inhaled a couple of times before passing it to Donnie, who took a quick, shallow drag, not relishing whatever dried garden herb he used instead of tobacco - it smelt like a bonfire of wet leaves. It was the first time he had smoked weed since they had been at college. He hadn't missed it.

'Billy' Jake pointed a thumb at the stocky one.

'Stephen' his index finger jabbed at the thin one.

'And this is Donnie, he's gonna help us out on the legal shit.' They both nodded a hello, Stephen still managing to avoid Donnie's eyes and Billy refusing to look anywhere else.

Donnie offered the joint to Stephen and he shook his head, thin hair fanning around his face and catching in his spiky beard.

'He don't do it any more', Jake said and took the joint from Donnie.

'I don't', he said, with a hint of a stammer. He kept his gaze somewhere near the ground, about two feet in front of his folded legs.

'Mr Natural', he said, and Donnie assumed that he thought it explained his position. Maybe it did.

Jake passed the joint to Billy who, with seeming reluctance tore his eyes from Donnie's face and applied his attention to the joint. Turning it carefully around he grasped it between the middle and ring fingers of his right hand and formed his hand into a kind of pipe, sucking the smoke from the hollow between his thumb and first finger.

The joint passed a couple more times, Jake finishing off the stub using the same technique as Billy to try and cool the smoke. With a sigh, he licked thumb and finger and squashed the glowing tip, putting the butt back into the tin.

'We just came to introduce Donnie - he's a brother, right?' Jake said. Billy grunted. He looked simultaneously relaxed and ready to spring into whatever action required his bulging muscles, but he nodded and Donnie took that for agreement. Stephen meanwhile winced and looked around for something more peaceful to look at, ducking his head and finding part of the wallpaper to fix on.

'I'm guessin' that the first thing we need to do is pay the rent.' Jake looked around at his audience of three, as if waiting for objections. None came.

'Meanin' we gotta make some money.'

'How much?' It was the first time Billy had spoken. Donnie found it hard to place the accent - part Welsh, part Liverpool, but all aggression.

'Couple of grand, I guess', Jake said, evenly.

'No fucking way - is that us fucked, then?' Billy summed up the position, crossing his legs with a feeling of finality. Stephen cleared his throat and remained silent.

'Well, we got our fingers crossed that the man...' he gestured at Donnie 'will do the business.' Jake clapped him on the shoulder in a show of confidence that Donnie did not share.

As they left, Jake gave Donnie his opinion.

'They're just a couple life's strays, you know? No-one to look after them, so they, like, cling together for a bit of comfort.'

A description that Donnie thought might equally apply to the rest of them. He noticed that the London patois had slipped quite a bit - maybe it wasn't compatible with psychobabble?

Jake showed him around the handful of fields that comprised the working section of the farm, and the goats - evil-smelling and untrustworthy - which lived in the same paddock as an elderly donkey. Jake told him, with a wink, that the donkey was an undercover agent who let him know when the goats were planning their next break-out.

Donnie's main impression was one of dirt, disorder and dereliction. The farm had seen better days and even the new buildings - the Earthship and a smaller cousin where Angel now lived - had a rough-and-ready appearance.

Maybe all farms were like that. When Donnie's parents had moved from their comfortable Hampshire semi to the smallholding in Yorkshire, he had been plunged from a well-ordered suburban life into the smells and dirt of a barely-viable, back-breaking existence amongst the shit and blood of country life.

His own flat, by contrast, was hygienic and well-ordered - now Sarah had left with her things, there was very little in the way of clutter and the clean book shelves held a minimalist collection of vases and ornaments that Sarah disliked, a wedding photograph she didn't want and his small CD and DVD collections - both alphabetised.

This farm itself was bigger than his parent's place, but still pretty small, the fields separated by hedges and pocked with weed. They raised mainly root crops, peas and beans, selling the produce in an organic box scheme with some other growers and with the one remaining local greengrocer.

Westwich was a middle-class stronghold and had managed to retain a high street with a butcher, a greengrocer, a cheese shop and a baker. They were able to sell for somewhat inflated prices as the inhabitants competed with each other for local buying credentials.

Unfortunately for the Foundation, their experiments with goats milk and cheese had so far not been a great success - but they provided a valuable contribution to the food budget.

By gentle probing, Donnie established that everyone other than Jake and Danu were actually collecting benefits, while Jake described himself as a farmer, and Danu took the title of Admin Manager for the Foundation. Actually what the Foundation did was more of a mystery. The idea was to provide spiritual retreats and meditation classes, but these had yet to materialise.

'Look, man, I know I said that I'd get the books out for you to suss out.' Jake's shoulders rounded and his body language told Donnie that it had not been his highest priority.

Donnie had mentioned, in passing that, though he couldn't help with the legal stuff, he could check out the accounts - Jake had evidently seized on this but typically hadn't done anything. Donnie kept a neutral expression as Jake pulled out the top drawer of the filing cabinet in the 'office' - a box room on the first floor of the farmhouse - and revealed a disorganised mass of paper and envelopes - most empty, some filled and some unopened.

'Why don't I leave you with it, and I'll bring you a cup of tea and a smoke in half an hour'.

'Make it an hour', Donnie said, and dumped the first layer of papers onto the dusty plank table that served as a desk.

'A pound a day?' Donnie was incredulous. 'For all this?'

Donnie sipped his camomile tea and eyed the joint that Jake was lighting up with suspicion. He was surrounded by piles of paper - the table was full, and he had co-opted the window seat, then the floor, to take the sorted paperwork. Everything was now sorted by type - one pile for electricity, one for gas, one for legal costs and so on. He would organise each pile by date as he put it back in the filing cabinet. He held a rent invoice for the previous year and waved it for emphasis. Jake took a deep pull on the joint, before replying.

'Well it was a while ago, land was cheaper then.' Jake held out the spliff to Donnie, who declined gracefully - he had had a couple of pulls of the previous one and his head was still spinning an hour later.

'Maybe land was cheap back then, but it wasn't that cheap - thirty quid a month? I pay more for my sandwiches.'

'Yeah man but you're a banker - anyway it was a yearly payment, 21st October every year, three hundred and sixty-five pounds.'

'An extra pound this year, then?' Donnie could still remember moaning about having to work the 29th February.

'No - Cecilia let us off the leap day - it was her birthday. You know the drill. She looked fifty, but sez she was thirteen or something.' He drew heavily on the joint.

'How come she let you have it so cheap.'

'It was her guru who suggested it.'

'Her guru - that wasn't you by any chance, eh?'

'Look, man, there's more to life than pounds and pence.' Jake examined the stub of the joint carefully to check that he'd had it all, before knocking off the end and grinding it into the ashtray, putting the butt in his pocket.

'She'd inherited this place from her uncle. I met her when I was in a squat in Islington and she took a few of us back here when the uncle stiffed. It was good then - still is, of course, but there was more cash around then.'

'So there is more to life than mantras and meditation?'

'The Buddha says that an empty belly is the enemy of spiritual enlightenment.'

'Yeah?'

'Anyway, this guy Sushant was with us then. It was him that introduced us to Amaka and Cecilia.

'Amaka? That the guru?'

'Yeah - Amavajita was his full handle - means 'Nameless', so they say. Amaka and Cecilia ran a spiritual centre in London and we went along - we was in it for the free meals at first, but then it all started to make sense - the spiritual life, I mean.'

'When we got talking, it turned out that my birthday was on a significant day - the day of the death of some famous Guru - Sri Jokara - that they venerated. It did seem like a good omen, from what they say.'

'So they kind of trusted me. Amaka had an eye to setting up a base here - The Indradhanu Spirit Foundation. That means 'Rainbow', in case you're wondering.'

Donnie raised an eyebrow.

'And this Cecilia fell for it?'

'She didn't fall for nothing, man, she was seeking a spiritual dimension to her life - nourishment for the soul - one day it might happen to you.' Jake seemed annoyed by the gentle sarcasm. Donnie was amused that Jake lost his patois and reverted to a Home Counties accent whenever he was riled. Jake continued in Guilford-esque tones.

'Anyways, she thought it was a good idea. It was waste land, her uncle had intended to farm it himself but never got round to it. So it had lain unused for two or three years. He didn't leave her that much cash, but a few quid, you know.'

'So she got some legal stuff drawn up and the Foundation got a ninety-nine year lease for a pound a day, payable yearly.'

'So what happened then?'

'Well we attracted a few more people - maybe twenty-five or thirty of us, back then - and got to building the Earthship, repairing the place, setting out the veg garden - had a few goats for the milk and that. Yeah, life was good that summer.'

'Surprised you can remember it', Donnie said, watching him roll up another J.

'Amaka didn't allow no drugs - we were all clean - more or less.' He lit up.

'When it got to winter, things were different. A few people headed back to town. Then Cecilia, Sushant and Amaka decided that India was a more spiritual environment.'

'Or a warmer one?'

'You're a cynic, but I'll give you that one. It was freezing that year. No money and no fuel kinda depleted the followers. Ended up with me, Bryony and a couple of other guys. Before they left, Cecilia and Amaka put me in charge of the Foundation and that's the last we heard of them.'

'Really?'

'Well, a couple of letters, then we lost touch - they moved on somewhere, I guess.'

'That figures. Who collected the rent, then?'

'That's just it - no-one did. The local solicitor, Anthony Rutter, sent us the bill every year - he handled all her legal stuff - the bastard.' Donnie knew that Rutter was the one who was trying to evict them.

'So we kinda paid the money into the Foundation bank account every year, for when she got back.'

'Wow, I'm impressed.'

At this Jake looked a little sheepish - and Donnie reflected that a white man with dreads can look pretty sheepish.

'Yeah, but we kinda dipped into it for emergencies and that - you know, running repairs and so on.'

'So you should have about four thousand pounds for eleven years, and allowing for compound interest, that'll be about eight thousand - and you've actually got how much?'

'I'm not sure.'

'An estimate?'

'About a hundred.'

'About?'

'Sixty quid.'

'Right. So you haven't paid any rent for over twelve years, and you've got about one percent of of it - how much more could you raise.'

Jake squinted as some of the acrid smoke filled his eyes. He thought for a few moments.

'Maybe another couple o' hundred.'

'Five percent, eh?'

'Yeah - well we're not materialists here.'

'So you need eight grand for back-rent and then a bit for a lawyer? - Call it fifteen. What are your assets?'

'You talkin' like a...'

'Bank manager - yes - but guess what?'

'Sorry man - forgot.'

'What's the grounds for eviction?'

'Rutter says that he is acting in Cecilia's interest. Bullshit. He can see a profit in the place - if they can get planning permission to build a few executive homes...' Jake shrugged his shoulders.

'You got any documents, deeds or whatever?' What Donnie could do with documents he had no idea, but there were property people at the bank who might look over them as a favour.

'Yeah, Danu sorted them out - in the parlour.' He gestured downstairs.

They descended to the farmhouse parlour. It was warm, even though the fireplace in the black iron range contained only some ashes. The room was painted a pale yellowish-white and the floorboards simply varnished. There were a couple of old wooden chairs and beanbags scattered around - all currently unoccupied. A large dinning table contained a small pile of folders, an empty mug and a clutter of cake tins, bags of flour and sugar. The room was filled with the pleasant smell of baking. The old black labrador was sniffing the air and regarded them with its dark sorrowful eyes. Jake sat down and rubbed its greying muzzle.

Donnie pulled out the notebook he had appropriated from upstairs and eventually found some pages that weren't covered with astrological calculations and diagrams. Armed with a well-chewed biro he sat on a settle next to the table and started work on the nearest thing they had had to a balance sheet in the last 11 years. He looked up at Jake.

'Is the Rainbow Foundation or the whatsername...'

'Indradhanu.'

'Yeah - either of them registered as a company? Inland Revenue?'

'Not as such'.

'You mean no?'

'Hmmm'.

Half an hour later he had a list of wholly-owned assets consisting of two Land Rovers (one working, one not), a tractor and assorted attachments, some tools, goodwill (thirty-odd families received organic boxes last year - no earnings declared, of course - plus the grocer in Westwick who took their produce), crops in the ground, some seeds.

After much hunting around, a copy of the original tenancy agreement was found. It specified four people: Jake, correctly named as Robert Jacobs, Bryony Williams, and two others - 'William McCann' and 'Keith Adams' , with the provision that they could 'singly or in concert' allow others the right of residence.

'Bill - yeah - last I heard he was in Birmingham, that was about five years ago. Keith is in the Smoke somewhere, don't know where.'

'Well as far as I know, you two as the remaining tenants have a legal right to stay here - if you're not in arrears.'

'Right'

'But you are.'

'Hmmm. It doesn't mention arrears, though, does it?'

'Have you got the eviction notice?' Donnie had been through the documents and knew it wasn't there.

'Sort of...' Jake pulled out a sheet from a pocket on the fisherman's smock he was wearing. It had been ripped apart and glued back together with sellotape.

'And this - probably the same sort of thing.' He handed Donnie a somewhat crumpled but unopened letter.

Donnie opened the letter and smoothed out the paper, holding it next to the torn and taped sheet. Both were pretty much the same...

**_Notice to Quit_**

__

_In consequence of the non-payment of rent for some considerable time, you are required and requested to quit the premises of Townend Farm. In the spirit of generosity in which the tenancy has been executed, you are requested to leave on or within three months from the serving of this notice. Said date is 1_ _st_ _June 2006. Failure to vacate the premises on or before this date may result in charges in addition to the currently outstanding debt. _

__

_With kind regards_

__

_Rutter And Son_

_34 High Street_

_Westwick_

_Essex_

The intact letter was identical except for the word 'Reminder'. Donnie checked the envelope - it was dated 1st April. He checked his watch - 14th April.

'So six and a half weeks left - what actions have you taken so far?'

'Well, I, er...' Jake's expression told Donnie all he needed to know.

'Right - look, I'll take this back with me' Donnie waved the un-torn notice and folded it back into the envelope. 'I'll see what our property man says about it.'

Tea was a communal affair eaten in the farmhouse. Donnie actually quite liked it - a vegetable curry, dahl, home-made bread and rice. The pudding was a bit less to his taste - being simply fruit. Donnie was used to something a bit more sugar-heavy and accompanied with a black coffee, but caffeine seemed to be a banned drug here - rather ironically in view of the quantity of dope he had seen Jake consume.

Conversation at the dinner table started out on the eviction and what they could do to fight it, but turned with alarming speed, to religion and spirituality. Given the number of statues of Indian Gods around the farmhouse and the Earthship, Donnie had been musing on this at odd times during the day.

He was an atheist - having made the transition from 'C of E' just after his church wedding to Sarah. Her parents were quite zealous methodists - teetotal, non-swearing types, rather bewildered at the awful path down which the majority of their fellow countrymen were headed. His folks, in contrast were 'um... dunno, really', when it came to religion and went along with anyone who felt strongly about it.

Sarah was much the same as him but, anxious to please her God-fearing parents, she had joined in the hymns and blessings with enthusiasm. Away from the family home however, she never visited a church without good reason.

'Don't you feel the need in your life?' Danu was saying earnestly while Jake looked on amused. He had known Donnie well for their three years together at college and was waiting for the snappy rejoinder, but Donnie had learned a modicum of respect from his in-laws.

'No - but I recognise that other people might. I have a theory that I don't have a soul.'

'Of course you have - everyone has.'

'Nah - you have, Jake has - that's why you feel that God exists and cares for you and wants you to commune with him. I ain't got a soul, so God doesn't bother me, and I don't bother him.'

'I haven't got one neither.' Sunny butted into the conversation, having been silent for all of three minutes.

'Of course you have, Sunny bunny.' Bryony grabbed the child and pulled her onto her modest bosom, which Sunny tolerated for a few seconds before wriggling free.

'I'm sure your mum is right', Donnie said, diplomatically - the last thing he wanted to do was upset Bryony - who hadn't warmed to him at all, so far. But for some reason, it was a topic he could not leave alone.

'Maybe I'm just too logical - you know, not spiritual.'

'What's logical? Maybe I'm logical.'

'Left-brain - more strain,' said Bryony, leaving Donnie trying to remember if that was right - wasn't the left side arty?

'Yeah Donnie is definitely a left-brain man - Mr. Logic.' Jake settled his internal argument, while Sunny was chasing a chick-pea around her plate, saying 'but what is logic?' . He felt he had to explain.

'Logic is like maths - you kind of make equations out of things to work out the truth.'

'And spirituality is when you know the truth without all that effort.' Danu added, looking smug.

'What's equations?' Donnie looked at Sunny, realising that this could be a long night. Bryony evidently decided that that was enough discussion.

'Come on Sunny, time we left the grown-ups to grow up.' And after only five minutes of argument, they were gone.

Donnie had arranged to stay overnight, giving them the opportunity, he thought, for a few pints in the local - he imagined a black and white half-timbered country pub - but Jake and Danu were reluctant, it seemed. Jake seemed particularly disapproving. Danu came to his rescue.

'Tony normally goes into town on a Saturday - maybe you'd like to go with him?'

Donnie was anxious not to come across as an alcoholic, but the thought of a Saturday night, in particular, spent drinking camomile tea and taking the occasional puff of weed in herbal tobacco induced a slight feeling of panic, so he agreed, and Danu accompanied him through the kitchen garden under the faint moonlight of a half-moon peeking through the clouds. They walked past the Earthship, currently completely dark, and its smaller version cosily lit, with the faint sound of a television penetrating the walls. Angel and the boys were seemingly watching _Strictly Come Dancing_.

They reached Tony's caravan - like Angel's Earthship, light leaked from the windows, but Tony was evidently not a TV man as the sound which met them was Frank Sinatra singing 'That's Life', distorted by rather cheap speakers. Danu knocked and shouted above the song.

'Tony - It's Danu.'

Tony opened the thin door of the caravan. He was small, dark and wiry. His black hair was slicked back from a brown face that held traces of shaving soap. He was wearing trousers and a vest - but no shoes.

'You just caught me - off to town in a couple of minutes.'

'Great - Donnie here would like to check out the night life in Westwick.' She pushed Donnie forward.

'Thought I'd see what the local brew is like', Donnie said, affably while Tony eyed him suspiciously.

'Come on in then, while I get ready - you going like that?' He eyed Donnie's now rather dirty jeans, the mud from the encounter with the dogs having dried on.

'Perhaps I'll go and change.'

'I'll meet you by the gate in ten minutes, then.' Tony shut the door, leaving Donnie and Danu looking at the frosted glass and net curtain, illuminated by the low voltage bulbs within.

They walked back slowly in the dim moonlight, avoiding the many clumps of mud, and worse, that littered their path.

'He's quite our Mr Charm, is Tony', Danu said, once they were well out of earshot. Donnie laughed again, internally, at her drawing room accent and upper class sensibilities.

'Well, he has a point, and I have got a spare pair of jeans.'

He was waiting at the farm gate six minutes later dressed in clean jeans, a plain blue shirt and a waxed jacket. He waited a further ten before Tony arrived, with Billy and Stephen in tow - both more or less unchanged from when he met them earlier.

Billy wore camouflage trousers and a grey t-shirt with 'Army Surplus' written on it, in mock stencilling. Stephen went for a well-worn pair of jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt - black, with the prism logo for 'Dark Side of the Moon'. Even in the dim moonlight, Donnie could see it was covered in cat hairs. They both wore coats against the rapidly cooling night air - a thigh-length khaki in Stephen's case and a grey duffle-coat in Billy's.

Tony had a suit on - no tie - but the white of his shirt gleamed at Donnie through the gloom. He opened the gate and they trooped though silently. Donnie felt very much the new kid in the playground and needed to fill the silence.

'Where're we going, then?'

'Rose 'n Crown', Billy said, and silence descended again as they walked along the lane into Westwick. It was darker on the road than in the farm, as both sides were flanked by trees which shielded the already faint light from the half-moon in the cloudy sky. There was no street-lighting, and no pavement either. Twice, in the twenty minutes it took to walk into town, they had to flatten themselves against the hedge as a car drove by. At least the darkness meant they could see the approaching headlights in time to make the evasive manoeuvres a leisurely affair.

They managed some sporadic conversation on the way in, but Donnie sensed that the darkness and relative quiet were barriers to speech. Once they arrived in Westwick, the street lights and pavements made for more cheery surroundings. Donnie walked in the lead with Tony while the other two came a few yards behind. They walked up the high street past The Swan. The solid brick-built pub sported AA and Les Routiers plaques and a large white notice stating 'Car Park to Rear.' The light coming through the multi-coloured window was predominantly yellow and red, and gave the place a comforting homely feel of an open fire.

'Looks like a nice place.' Donnie ventured.

'Billy's been banned', Stephen said, to a muttered 'Soft shite' from Tony and a throat clearing and spit from Billy. Most of the shops in the high street were dark, but a convenience store spilled bright light onto the pavement. They stopped outside and had a muttered conversation.

'Seven fifty last time - that's two fifty each', Billy said, in an authoritative whisper.

'What about him?' Tony gestured at Donnie.

'He's a guest, him', Billy said with finality and gave some coins to Tony. Stephen added a few more while Donnie watched in bafflement. The two lads held back as Tony entered the shop, beckoning Donnie to follow him.

He marched up to the counter and greeted the spotted, gangling young assistant.

'Alright? Half of that White Russian.' With a sigh, Donnie realised they were getting the take-out before the shop shut. No point in paying pub prices for cans, he guessed. He would do the same.

'And one for me.' He added, as the assistant bent down.

Vodka safely stowed in Billy's duffle-coat and Donnie's mail-order waxed jacket, they proceeded up the high street and round to a smaller road with a broken street sign saying 'lchester Road', which he assumed would have been 'Colchester' in its youth. The pub was not far down - its fake black and white timbers being a Victorian homage to the ideal country pub, while its half-full car park in the front and the sign 'Home Cooked Meals' a bow to the necessities of modern life. Though not as welcoming as the Swan, it did not look uninviting and when they trooped in behind Tony, the familiar smells of fried food and spilt beer made Donnie feel completely at home. As with most pubs, the combination of the noise from the slot machines and the football on-screen either end of the bar would relegate conversation to a secondary and optional pastime.

The realities of country drinking were soon evident. Donnie bought the first round and they drank half of it down in companionable silence. For the first time since arriving, Donnie began to relax, the tension ebbing from his shoulder muscles, as the beer slipped down. He had Billy to his left, Tony to the right, and was facing Stephen. He felt more comfortable with Stephen's averted gaze than Billy's penetrating stare. Now with half his pint gone, Billy made some hidden movements under the table, and then took up his glass and lowered it below the line of sight. He returned it to the table-top and swirled it around, nudging Stephen who slid his glass under the table, in turn. Tony repeated the operation and nudged Donnie with the half-bottle of vodka. At last understanding, he added a slug to his own pint and passed it on to Billy, who pocketed it again.

And so the night progressed. Once the first pint had been disposed of they decided on a kitty. Donnie did not protest that he had bought a round - after all, he was in the money - at least compared to his companions. They managed another three pints, all of Billy's vodka and half of Donnie's before closing time.

As men do when expected to talk, they talked football - the up-coming world cup giving them ammunition for most of an hour's authoritative discussion. Donnie was not a great fan of football and he gathered that only Billy was a bone fide supporter, but the other three had learned enough to keep their side of the talk going.

Football exhausted, they turned to the other people back at the farm, and Donnie was, at last, genuinely interested in what they had to say, prompting them regularly.

He learnt that, although Jake was the father of Sunny, he pretended to be involved with Danu when 'the Social' came around. Bryony claimed benefits and was regularly inspected for her fitness to be a single mother. Angel was subject to the same scrutiny, but she was more lightly treated as, in Tony's words - 'at least my Angela's sane - fucking Bri's a mad bitch.' It seemed that Tony was the only one who called his daughter by her full name.

Tony's grandsons, Richard and Jonathan, were 'Good lads, but they need a father's hand - a back-hand, if you take me.' Surprisingly, Sunny was 'alright' in spite of 'getting on me tits' quite a lot. 'Contrary.' Stephen added and that set Tony off.

'Remember that time my Richard told her that girls couldn't climb?' He put his pint down to have a good laugh that allowed Donnie to count his teeth - no molars, but most of the front ones were present. Once he had enjoyed the laugh, he turned to Donnie.

'Well, next thing we knew she was on the fucking roof of the farmhouse - gone up the drainpipe like a weasel, but she didn't like it when she got to the top.' He had to stop for another laugh and Stephen took over.

'We didn't have a ladder big enough, so she was up there for an hour while we borrowed a cherry-picker from Davy Sanders on the farm next door.'

'Started pissing down after half an hour, too - we had to throw a coat up to the girl before she froze. She'll be alright that kid.' With that Tony drained his glass in tribute.

They turned out of the pub at eleven and started on the journey home. Donnie felt himself to be not quite in possession of his feet, but trusted to the walk back to sober him up. Sadly for this plan, he had forgotten about the remaining vodka.

When they arrived at the gate, the last of the vodka was gone, and all four of them found the cattle grid a challenge, though only Stephen actually lost his footing, watched from the other side by the collie and the yorkie who barked encouragement.

Donnie had been given the spare room in the farmhouse - Danu had the other bedroom and the third one, a box room, was now the office he had been in earlier. As Stephen and Billy walked on to the cottage and Tony to his caravan, Donnie negotiated the kitchen garden, followed for half of the way by the now silent collie. Someone had left the exterior light on, but the rest of this side of the farmhouse was in darkness.

He managed the back door, but overestimated his strength in pushing it closed - the crash of the door against the frame echoing through the flagged kitchen. In the blackness of the interior he tried to remember the layout and failed. He was forced to open the door again to let in the light and work out his next move. He could see the path to the light switch, a straight run past the table and settle. He closed the door again and made for the switch. The collision with the settle and his subsequent crash onto the floor, via the table came as a complete surprise.

Danu dabbed the cut on his forehead with some evil-smelling liquid from a brown bottle. He was still savouring her pronunciation of 'fucking' - he always liked the sound of posh girls swearing, something he had gotten familiar with in his days at Canary Wharf. He was also enjoying the sight of her half-open and too-small towelling dressing gown.

'Now - do you think you can make it to bed unaided or do I have to collude with your evident regression to being a schoolboy and put you to bed myself?' He was tempted - very tempted - to take her up on the schoolboy option but, as drunk as he was, he could tell by her tone that this was not an invitation to anything other than a place in a small hole, situated well beneath her contempt. He staggered up the stairs alone, while she replaced the tincture of comfrey root in the medicine cabinet.
The bedding roll seemed clean, although it smelt rather of dogs, but Donnie slept through the din of his own snoring, waking only once for a pee in the bathroom which looked like an illustration from a wartime plumbing supplies catalogue. He had slept soundly until woken up by Sunny, shouting 'Breakfast' in his ear. His head throbbed, his throat was as rough as sandpaper and his tongue seemed to have been desiccated by the snoring.

Staggering to the bathroom, he drank copious quantities of the metallic-tasting water, before washing and shaving in the cold water. There was a tap marked 'H', but it only gave cold water at a slower rate than the one marked 'C'.

His clothes from the previous night smelt strongly of the pub - beer, sweat and a hint of cigarette smoke - so he dressed with those in which he had arrived, ignoring the mud stain on the jeans. He clumped down the stairs to find Jake, Bryony, Danu and Sunny already half-way through their porridge.

Sunny was as voluble as ever, presiding over breakfast and ensuring that everyone had honey, bread and butter and camomile tea. Jake was mostly silent and the task of keeping up with Sunny's stream of consciousness was borne largely by Bryony and Danu. However, the girl was keen to enlist Donnie's help in her on-going battle to be a 'scientist'.

'So do you use computers and everything?'

'Yeah, we use a lot of computers - not much paper, these days.'

Sunny was a little a little taken aback by the reference to paper - what would you use paper for? She ploughed on regardless.

'And you don't believe in God and all that, do you?'

'No \- but I'm not saying other people should or shouldn't,' Donnie said, diplomatically.

'People who don't believe, they're people that don't receive - especially Easter eggs,' Bryony said.

Sunny stuck out her lower lip.

'Do you get one, Donnie?'

It was a very long time since Donnie had last had an Easter egg, but a little white lie might not come amiss.

'Yes - it's back at home in London. A huge one.' He winked at Bryony, whose expression was hard for him to read.

'Donnie gets one 'cos he's a nice man - a man with a plan to help us,' she said, without a smile.

After breakfast was cleared, Donnie climbed the stairs to the office and settled down with a fresh A4 pad and a calculator from his car. He intended to do the accounts properly for the first time in fourteen years. He had some estimates from Jake of what they had spent over the years and he would claim these where he could as expenses. So he sat with a cooling mug of camomile tea, working through the figures, trying to date the expenses as early as possible to save on the compound interest.

At lunchtime Danu popped her head around the door and led him downstairs to home-made bread and goats' cheese. Although the cheese was a little runny and bland it was surprisingly nice, though he was tiring rapidly of the ubiquitous camomile tea. He guessed that they had a lot of camomile on the farm.

'The others not joining us, then?' He asked - he was wondering if he had been forgiven for last night, but Danu had not mentioned it, and seemed bright enough. Her default position seemed to be that of liking and accepting people.

'No - Jake took some sandwiches with him. Bryony and Sunny are sharing an Easter egg in the Earthship - that leaves you and me, Mr Logic - how are you getting on?'

'Not too bad - if we discount the day-to-day bills as being the tenants' responsibility, and the building costs for the Eathships as being inadmissible, there are a few things - roof repairs, drains and so on - that we can count against the rent.'

Her mouth had turned down at the mention of drains, and he decided not to ask about them - especially at the lunch-table.

'So it's looking hopeful. Maybe I can reduce the liability to a couple of thousand.'

Her downturned mouth turned down a little more and he thought it might be time to call a halt to discussion.

'Better get back to it, and see if I can improve on that.'

From the silence, Donnie assumed that he had the place to himself and he carried on sorting bills, allocating expenditure, filing and making a list of questions to ask Jake when he re-appeared. He could guess the answers to most of them - like 'Do you have planning permission for the Earthships?' or 'Do you have a site licence for the caravan?'.

He found several court orders and summonses among the papers - illegal use of agricultural diesel, unauthorised discharge of slurry through the drains, driving without an M.O.T. or insurance - all par for the course on a smallholding, in his limited experience.

Noises below alerted him that the kitchen was occupied again, and he took his list of questions downstairs, to find Danu, rifling through a cupboard

'Coffee?' she said - gesturing with an empty mug.

'Love one'. He had been at the accounts for a couple of hours and he would normally have had about three or four cups in that time. Strangely he had not really missed it during the day, but now that there was a possibility of a coffee, his habitual craving was back in full force.

Danu heaped some brown powder out of an unlabelled jar into a mug and poured in some hot water from a old-fashioned kettle on the range. Not boiling, but coffee powder is best at a lower temperature - so Donnie had been told. She added some milk from a pitcher and handed the mug to him, turning back to add some milk to her own. He touched her hand as she gave him the mug. In Donnie's world people made huge efforts to avoid physical contact, and the touch of her slightly grubby brown fingers felt like a intrusion from another world.

He should have recoiled from it, but suppressed the instinct. He had learned, last night, that physical contact was the rule here. Jake was always pretty blokey, even in the old days - plenty of bicep punches, shoulder charges and the like - but now he went in for the friendly arm around the shoulders and the fist bump - it was the first time that Donnie had ever seen or experienced that particular mannerism.

Bryony, likewise, was fond of a hug - though her face did not betray very much other than a wary regard - although she seemed like that with the others, so maybe this was habitual.

As for Sunny - she seemed to love the idea of a new knee to sit on and a new adult to explore the wonders of Jupiter with. It was so different from the rigid personal space that seemed to be the rule in the middle-management world of London.

The taste of the coffee ended all this speculation. It was unbelievably foul. He would have spat it out, but made a super-human effort not to and gulped down his first mouthful.

'Unusual taste,' he said, lamely.

'Oh yeah - I don't suppose you're used to dandelion coffee. And it's goats' milk, of course.'

'Of course - that will be it.' He looked at the mug of foul brown liquid and tried to estimate how many mouthfuls were left.

'Want some cake?'

'Yes please.' - Anything to hide the taste, he thought. She took a cake tin from the dresser and sliced a generous wedge of dense nearly-black cake and placed it delicately on a side-plate, licking her fingers after she handed the plate to him.

So he got the coffee down, one mouthful of brown sticky treacle cake to one mouthful of foul goat-milk flavoured mud. He was chewing the last mouthful of the worthy-tasting cake - why did everything here look like mud and taste like sweetened soil? - when Sunny came in, accompanied by the rat-like terrier.

'Mikey - shoo.' Danu pointed at the door and the dog trotted back outside with its tail between its thin back legs.

'I'm starving, Danu, and it's ages till teatime.' Sunny eyed the crumbs on their plates, as Danu ruffled the kid's hair and opened another cake tin. Inside was a light-brown, dry looking seed-cake. Danu sliced off a small piece and gave it to the kid, who ran off, back out into the spring sunshine.

'Two kinds of cake!' Donnie said 'Riches indeed!'

'Well, yes - obviously we can't let the kids have hash-cake,' Danu said, and Donnie nodded sagely. About thirty seconds later, the meaning of the words sunk in. Oh well, he thought - it's not as if he was a stranger to the delights of cannabis - though the couple of puffs of Jake's joint was the first he had had in the last ten or fifteen years. He wasn't expecting to drive back for a couple of hours, so what the hell, he thought - he might as well enjoy it. It would be compensation for the foul taste of the ersatz coffee.

Donnie was still experiencing a rosy glow from the hash-cake when teatime rolled around. He had intended to leave at 3 o'clock, but he found it hard to concentrate on the accounts, and made even more than his normal quota of mistakes. More than once he cursed himself for not bringing the laptop as each mistake meant a trail through the previous calculations, rubbing out the pencilled figures and replacing them. By 5 o'clock he was more or less through and was ready to track down Jake. From the noise downstairs he guessed it would not be that hard.

He went down to find Jake washing his hands at the sink while Danu was stirring pots on top of the stove, filling the kitchen with the pleasant aroma of frying onions. Jake saw Donnie and walked over to hug him - hands still wet and leaving clammy imprints on Donnie's shirt.

'Hey - the man o' the moment - have you got good news fo' us?'

'Maybe - but I have to ask some questions.' Donnie sat down to terminate the mauling and put a sheet of paper on the table. Jake's expression assumed a business-like appearance, and his accent assumed its business-like Surrey incarnation. They sat side-by-side at the table while Donnie extracted a series of responses that avoided anything so constraining as a definite answer, but in the end he had at least an idea of what expenses could be defensible and what could not.

By then, dinner - in the form of vegetable stew, bread and a kind of home-made pesto - was ready, and they had been joined by Bryony and Sunny. Sunny wanted to know about his computer - he struggled to even remember the make. She wanted to know why grass was green - apparently Jake had told her that grass was green and the sky was blue so that goats knew which way up they were. She wanted to know why herbs smelt herby and grass smelt grassy. He was exhausted by the time he had finished half a bowl of the worthy-tasting stew. But Sunny evidently saw him as a source of proper scientific information, even though each question left him floundering.

Bryony was amused at his discomfort - she could answer all these with 'because that's the way it is' or 'That's the way it's meant to be' and so on. He was relieved when the meal was over and Bryony and Sunny left. He had another couple of questions to ask Jake, then he would hit the road. He helped clear the table and dried the dishes which Jake washed in water heated on the stove. While they worked, Danu got the cake tin out again and cut a piece of hash-cake for herself and Jake.

'What about you Donnie?' she said, knife hovering over the brown cake.

'No, thanks - driving.'

'Go on - you can always stay over. It's Easter Monday tomorrow.'

'No - really.'

## **CHAPTER FOUR**

### **_Easter Monday_**

###

Donnie woke gradually, sliding from a disjointed dream featuring him walking corridors in search of something he had forgotten. Each corner he came to promised a solution - an answer - but each corner disappointed.

He woke to bright sunlight and the warmth of a body close to his on the almost round hand-made mattress. In the heat of the evening they had pushed the paisley printed quilt down to their waists. Danu lay on her back, snoring in a lady-like series of quiet grunts, one arm curled behind her head, giving some shape to the breast nearest to Donnie, and exposing her hairy armpit. He buried his nose in the damp reddish-brown hair and breathed in her smell, while his hand traced a path from hip to right breast. She stopped snoring for a handful of breaths and then resumed.

He felt almost at peace for the first time in years. The anxiety dream was still present, but did not penetrate his mood of calm relaxation. He watched the motes of dust dancing in the Monday morning sunlight that streamed through the small windows of her room, and his mind was still.

It had probably been the dope, but they had started comparing their life-stories. She had been an army child - Daddy was a major and Ma a part-time teacher of the Alexander Technique - and they had roved all over the British outposts before settling near Aldershot when she was thirteen or fourteen. Army schools gave way to a public school and two years of university studying psychology before she dropped out to follow her man on the hippy trail to Nepal.

They stayed in India for most of two years, mostly financed by minor crime and drug-dealing on his part and occasional language teaching on hers. She was fluent in French and German when she went to India, and came back speaking Nepali and Hindi as well. In spite of the several months Donnie had spent in the bank's Frankfurt branch, her German was better than his. When they found they had German in common they attempted to carry on the rest of the conversation in it, but Donnie had to surrender when his sentences started to consist entirely of 'Langsamer bitte' and 'Was bedeutet das?'.

The man she was with was missing London and the bright lights, so they came back after their two year trip. She was no fan of living in a squat in north London and when one of the guys told her about the Foundation, she made the trek out to Essex and had stayed ever since.

She told him that she had taken the name 'Danu' when she was 'spiritually reincarnated' in India.

'What was it before then?' He asked.

'Not telling you - why are you called 'Donald' - you're not Scottish'.

He started in on his story - his parents' move from Hampshire, his boyhood in Yorkshire, his older sister, his ambition to be in a band, to be an artist, to be a writer - and his parents convincing him to train to be an accountant. The hash-cake made him a bit self-pitying and he laid it all on a bit thick. His unexpected success in the exams that prompted him to try for college in London and his subsequent undistinguished career.

'But you haven't answered my question - why did your parents call you Donald - why not something Hampshire-ish - you know, Quincey or Jolyon or something.' She started giggling at that and he made a valiant effort not to join in.

'I'll tell you if you tell me your first name.' One giggle escaped Donnie, but he choked it down as Danu, still laughing, nodded her head in agreement

'My mum saw The Dirty Dozen and fell for Donald Sutherland. Not very interesting', he said, signalling the anti-climax with a shrug.

'Oh I don't know - you look like him - distinguished and a bit cheeky.' In response he tickled her, searching for a rib beneath the denim shirt and fleshy skin.

'Now you - what is your name, young lady? If you don't talk, I'll tickle.'

'Threats? I'm not ashamed of it - Sophia Carrington.' She held out her hand for him to shake and he took it and kissed it with exaggerated courtliness.

'The honourable Sophia Carrington, I presume.' Now she tickled him and he turned away, feigning a look of fear and twisted his shirt - it ripped at the third button, throwing it somewhere on the wooden floor. Danu began slowly opening the remaining buttons, so he did the same with her denim shirt, exposing the junction between the brown skin of her neck and the pale skin of her breasts.

Things moved pretty fast after that and the only event that he could now recall with clarity was lying naked on the mattress while she pulled out a small punchwork tin from a low cupboard and handed him a condom. It was the first of three that they went through.

As he remembered the night, his body started to re-enact it. He became aware that Danu had stopped snoring. She was looking at him with an amused smile, while her hand explored the extent of his renewed interest. It looked like the condom tin was about to make a re-appearance.

Donnie stepped into the Earthship after receiving no answer to a knock on the wooden door. Bryony was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sewing a button onto a small pair of jeans. She looked up at him and smiled.

'You looking for Jakey? He's out drilling for carrots. Least if he can get his big machine working.'

'Oh yeah - I heard the tractor on the way from the farmhouse.' Donnie turned to leave, but Bryony's quiet voice called him back.

'So you stayed with our loverly Danu last night?' she said, making it a question.

'Yes.' He blushed, without knowing quite why.

'She's fond of company.' Was she being bitchy, Donnie thought, or just telling him that he had no claim on Danu? He scrutinised Bryony's face. She seemed unfazed by his gaze, her dark eyes holding his and the question was obviously still open.

'Well, I'm fond of company, myself,' he said, and she laughed. A light trill of notes that seemed to have a Welsh accent.

'Good,' she said. 'I'll be honest and say that I never enjoyed sex as much as Danu does.' He noted the past tense as much as the openness - he couldn't recall discussing sex with a woman at all - not even Sarah. He blushed again, not knowing what to say. Like a teenager, he blurted out the first thing he could think of.

'Well she does have a lot of condoms.' Bryony did not seem to find it funny.

'Ah, rubber, the perverts friend. Sex with no point and no outcome.'

'Is pleasure a sin?' He felt the need to stand up for Danu - he didn't mind being called a pervert - it might be right.

'Sir, I'm unfair. You know why she uses them things?' He gave up any hope of getting sense out of her, so he just shook his head instead.

'She got a really bad case of the clap off a guy - ooh, maybe eight years back.'

'Still - I expect the antibiotics....' She shook her head, looking down at the material and picking at it.

'You know Danu - The Earth Mother. She wanted to treat it naturally. Meditation, strict diet, healing herbs.'

'I don't suppose that worked too well?'

'We were celebrating the vernal equinox, in here, when she collapsed. Whore on the floor. She had a fever - a bad one.'

'Since she was unconscious, it didn't trouble our consciences when we called an ambulance and took her off to hospital.'

'The infection had spread to her tubes. They could treat it, of course - pumped her full of stuff - but she was damaged by it.'

'She seems alright now.' He was wondering where this was going, and Bryony was now avoiding his eyes, smoothing the material on her lap.

'She can't have children', She said, raising her eyes to his to gauge his reaction. He didn't know what to say - he wasn't intending to live with Danu for the rest of his life - maybe not even for the rest of the weekend. He certainly wasn't appraising her for breeding purposes.

'Well, maybe she's better off. I'm glad that I didn't have any with Sarah - it would just have made things more complicated.' Bryony's expression hardened a little.

'Not that I don't like kids,' he said, hurriedly. 'Sunny is great - a fine little kid, and a credit to you - it's just that I don't fancy having any myself - at least, not yet.'

'Let me tell you about Sunny - she's as rational as they come. And rational is fashionable, now. I don't know how Jakey and me produced her - but I'm glad we did - she's a message from the Gods to tell us that children are children of the world first, children of God second - they don't belong to their parents, they're a gift. A loan only. A loan for the lonely. Something for us to love.'

Donnie had the feeling that he was out of his depth - drowning in words that had had all sense removed from them before they were launched into the air.

'I'd better go and find Jake'. He left the Earthship and exhaled deeply. The conversation had reminded him of meeting his in-laws for the first time - it felt like an exam he had failed.

'Why is everything round?' Donnie spun around to face the little girl. She had appeared behind him as he walked the narrow margin of a field just showing the green shoots of some crop or other.

'What? Everything?'

'Planets and that - the Sun's round, the Moon's round and the Earth is too - they don't tell you why.' Donnie had absolutely no idea. He had done physics but that was a long time ago. His nephew was five, and he was the same as Sunny - one question after another. He tried his best gambit - the one that always worked on Jack.

'Why do you think that is?'

'I don't know. I wouldn't ask you if I did.' This kid was smarter than Jack.

'Well if planets were square, people would fall off the edge.' That was the best he could do, and she was considering it carefully. He thought he could change the subject.

'Where's Jake?'

Jake was perched on the seat of the ancient tractor as it bounced across the field. The labrador was sitting behind him, looking happy, but maybe a little sea-sick. Jake was looking behind him as the blades of the plough turned the green field into brown curls of rich soil. He caught sight of Donnie and Sunny and raised a thumb, continuing up the field for the remaining fifty yards or so. Donnie took a seat on a small pile of tyres and waited for him to reach the end of the field, turn around, and plough his way back.

'I see what you mean.' Sunny suddenly piped up, having been silent for all of five minutes while she guided him to Jake's field.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah - planets are really big. If it was square, the corner would be like a 'normous mountain. And it would stick up out of the air, and water wouldn't go up it and all that. Everything's got to be round.'

'Hmmm' Donnie made up his mind to try and learn some astronomy.

Jake turned off the engine and jumped to the ground, followed by the dog. He mussed Sunny's hair and she slapped at his hand, patting the hair down again.

'Hope the bastard starts again,' Jake said, giving the front wheel of the tractor a gentle kick. 'I wanna get the field done before th' rain.'

'I'm heading back to town, Jake - do my washing and all that sort of thing - I'll call you as soon as I've shown the eviction notice to one of my colleagues at the bank. There must be some way of fighting it without finding too much cash - but in the meantime, you need to try and think what you can sell to raise a few bob. At the least we're going to need a solicitor.'

Jake nodded his head solemnly in a gesture that Donnie remembered well from college days. It meant he would do absolutely nothing at all.

## **CHAPTER FIVE**

### **_Legal manouvers _**

###

'What's this then?' Bill Wright shook the piece of A4 at Donnie in the slightly aggressive style he favoured for those without a decent education in property law.

'It's a court order, isn't it?' Donnie was expecting a difficult job trying to get Bill to pick out loopholes and deficiencies in the wording that would give the commune a chance to challenge the eviction.

'Where does it say 'Court Order' or 'Order of the Court' or - I don't know - 'Order Curiae' or whatever.' Bill was never happier when treating people like children who had forgotten their homework.

'Well, what is it then?' Donnie kept his impatience in check - Bill was doing this as a favour, so he couldn't pull rank. He just had to face being patronised with a smile, and probably, the offer of a pint after work.

Bill looked at it with disdain, but read it properly, making the odd 'hmmph' or tut. Eventually he looked up Donnie.

'Solicitor's letter - not worth bothering with. The kind of thing they send to intimidate the uneducated or unwashed. Worth trying if they're dumb enough to fall for it.'

'They are in arrears - ten or eleven thousand.'

'What does your tenancy agreement say? You can't necessarily evict them on the basis of arrears - bloody law's too soft for that.' Bill had obviously assumed that Donnie was the owner. Donnie decided not to enlighten him. Bill's views on hippies were unknown, now that they were rare creatures, but his views on squatters, environmentalists, anti-capitalism protestors and the un-pinstriped in general were freely available to all his workmates. A spell in the army or, failing that, prison, would be the only thing to sort them out.

'Get your solicitor to put a request in to the court - then you'll have to wait five or six weeks while they find the bloody pen or whatever - serve the eviction notice, wait three weeks and then you can send in some heavies. Best you can do - eight weeks minimum, but you'll probably be lucky to get the bastards out in less than three months.'

It looked as if Bill was about to launch into an analysis of what was wrong with the property law in 'this bloody country', so Donnie headed him off.

'Thanks Bill - I'll get back to the solicitor.'

'You want another bloody solicitor, if that's the best he can do.'

Two weeks later, the Saturday saw Donnie and Jake waiting in a small anteroom at the solicitors. They had been offered coffee (no biscuit) and had watched the office clock tick slowly past eleven, the appointed time, and creep towards half-past. Donnie had no doubt that it was deliberate - he had used the same tactic himself when he was a branch manager.

Donnie had had an uphill struggle to get Jake to talk to the solicitor at all, and it was only by agreeing to go with him that he could do anything. When he had pressed him, Jake just mumbled something about having an 'authority problem' - Donnie practically had to call the solicitor himself, so reluctant was the hippy to agree to facing the dreaded authority figure. He had spent an hour on the phone trying to convince Jake that the solicitor was just a man doing what he saw as his job, probably with no great interest or enthusiasm. He hadn't convinced Jake, but he had talked him into calling the secretary for a weekend appointment.

At half-past precisely, Mr Rutter poked his head around the door. Donnie would have gone for twenty-three minutes past - right on the half hour was unprofessional, in his view.

'Good morning Mr Jacobs and Mr....'

'Stevens – Donald Stevens'. Rutter's greying hair was long enough to reach his collar, but well cut, and dressed with some kind of oil or spray. His pallid white hands were well manicured and buffed and his expensive suit formed a pinstriped frame for the pale blue shirt and blue tie. He called them into his office and gestured to the chair facing his imposing desk.

Donnie had to half-push Jake into into the chair, while he fetched another from its home near the wall. On the seat was a shoe-box full of cassette tapes - 'Mod Hits of the Sixties', 'Small Faces - The Ultimate Collection' and so on. As he moved the box to the floor Donnie noticed 'This is The Modern World'.

The solicitor grimaced and said. 'I've just changed the car and the damn new one only plays CDs - I suppose I'll have to buy that lot again - memories of a mis-spent youth'.

'The Jam?' Donnie said, questioningly, trying hard to picture the grey man in front of him having a youth at all - let alone a mis-spent one.

'One tries to keep up with the current bands.' Mr Rutter attempted a smile and almost succeeded. Donnie decided not to point out that The Jam had split up when he and Jake were still at college. The solicitor gathered himself and frowned at the pair in a more legalistic fashion.

'And in what capacity are you joining us, Mr Stevens?'

'I am Mr Jacobs' financial advisor.'

'Well I would have thought..' Rutter paused while he turned over the concept of Jake having any finances to bother an advisor with. 'Never mind, let us proceed.'

'As you know, in my capacity as the solicitor for Mrs Thompson, the owner of Townend farm, I am obliged, in her absence to attempt to look after her affairs, and to ensure that, so far as is possible, her interests are properly served in the execution of day-to-day fiscal matters.' He paused while they attempted to disentangle the sentence.

'Which is why I have requested that you vacate the premises, so that I may engage another or several other tenants who may offer a more reliable source of income - and, indeed, a greater one.'

'I believe a three-month term of notice is sufficient for you to obtain alternative accommodation - indeed, it is generous, so I would be most grateful to know that this meeting is for you to tender a date on which possession of the farm would be available to others.'

Jake opened his mouth, but Donnie held up a cautionary hand and mustered his own verbal artillery.

'You have been most accommodating, Mr Rutter - my clients are grateful for the diligence with which you have executed your duties to Mrs Thompson, who is, as you know, a personal friend of Mr Jacobs and Ms Williams.'

Donnie heard the beginnings of a growl from Jake, and hastily continued.

'However, noting that the notice of eviction has not, in fact, been issued from a court of law - having the status of a polite request, rather than a binding order, my clients regretfully inform you that they cannot comply and intend to remain at Townend farm until such time as Mrs Thompson herself requests them to quit.'

Rutter's eye's narrowed and he took several sheets of paper from his desk and tapped them on the desk, tidying them into a small pile. Donnie knew he was playing for time while he considered his options.

'Indeed, it is simply a polite request and I sincerely hope it was not mistaken by Mr Jacobs and Ms -er'.

'Williams' Donnie supplied.

'Quite - Ms Williams. I hope the document was not misconstrued.'

Donnie nodded to indicate that he was in no way doubting Mr Rutter's intentions.

'However, if you are of the inclination to continue residence.' He looked at Jake who in turn looked at Donnie. Donnie nodded and Jake turned back to Rutter and nodded to him.

'Very well. I believe that you are, in fact, somewhat in arrears of the - ahem - peppercorn rent. I will put that fact before the court and request that a binding order of eviction is obtained on the grounds that you have not fulfilled your side of the tenancy agreement vis-a-vis payment of rent.' His eyes hardened and he continued.

'If you see your way to complying with the 'polite request' to quit, I will look to waiving the arrears. Should I be forced to go to court, however, I would insist on full payment, in order, you understand, to defray court costs. I believe that we are talking, with the addition of compound interest, of something in the region of fifteen to twenty thousand pounds.'

Jake made a deep growl that Donnie tried to suppress with a loud cough and a squeeze to Jake's forearm. Donnie could have queried the twenty thousand, but it didn't take a big increase in the interest rate to multiply a debt under compound interest.

'Of course, Mr Rutter, only to be expected, but examining the text of the rental agreement, I notice that there are no provisions for repairs and refurbishments which my clients have executed over the years. If you would be so kind as to provide me with a date for the presentation to the court, I will prepare a statement of expenditure for consideration by the court. I believe that this will reduce the outstanding balance considerably, and may completely negate it - I am still preparing the accounts, but I believe that to be the case.'

The solicitor looked hard at him. Donnie looked back at him with as unconcerned a countenance as he could manage.

'Well, I think there is not much to add - perhaps we should leave the matter there. I will be in communication, presently.' Rutter stood, announcing the end of the meeting.

Jake opened his mouth, but Donnie gave him a cautionary glance.

'Thank you, Mr Rutter.' Donnie did not offer his hand, and neither did Rutter.

Out on the road, Donnie steered Jake around the corner - he was parked in the car park of The Rose and Crown.

'Well - I think that went ok. If he goes to the court, you've got another couple of months to think of something else. If he doesn't you're free - though you might think of trying to pay the rent from now on.' Jake was still silent, his jaw working. As they approached the pub, he kicked the kerb with enough force to make Donnie wince.

'The fucking bastards rule the fucking world - they own almost everything and they won't stop until they do own everything. They're not content with most of the fucking people kissing their arses, they want to force the rest of us to fucking pucker up. Bastards.' He spat and kicked the kerb again.

Donnie was shocked - it was the first time he'd seen Jake lose his temper.

'But we won, sort of - I mean temporarily at least.'

'But being summoned like we was naughty schoolboys sitting in front of the fucking headmaster. What happened to talking man-to-man - being honest, cards on the table and all that? Why do we have to prove some shit or other - we're only living. It's not like we're fucking harming anyone is it? Fucks sake.'

Donnie was alarmed to see tears on Jake's face. He put an arm around him and pulled him close. Jake's body was like a bag of springs under tension and about to explode. He would have suggested a pint but...

'Come on, Jake, let's get back and roll up a fat one.'

Donnie had been feeling pretty good - not that he was expecting to be carried shoulder-high around the Foundation, but a 'Well done' or a 'Thanks Donnie' would have been good. As it was, the prospect of court orders, fines and Jake's obvious depression seemed to affect everyone in the Earthship. At least Danu squeezed his hand when he was explaining that they had a stay of execution for a couple of months - and maybe completely.

He had been quite excited at Bill's dismissal of the eviction notice. He had phoned Jake that night and given him the news - all he had to do was challenge the solicitor and he would back down. Jake's reluctance to do it was apparent from the start and it had taken him three phone calls before he realised that if it was going to be done, he would have to do it himself - he was unsure, now, why he bothered.

For two weeks he had rehearsed his arguments and the potential arguments of the solicitor and it had gone well - the eviction notice was all but withdrawn. He couldn't understand why they were all so negative.

'Why don't they leave us alone. We poked an ant's nest and the ants are restless' Bryony had an arm around Jake's shoulders as he rolled the third joint in ten minutes. Sunny was on her other side, cuddling up to her mother. Danu was at Donnie's side, both hands around one of his. One of the beanbags contained the traveller woman, 'Angel' - she seemed more interested in the details.

'Do you think they can get a court order, Donnie?'

'Get anything they want, them people' Angel's father, Tony, sat behind her in a conventional chair. That was the sum of the council of war - the others seemed less concerned with the fate of the farm - Billy, who Donnie had talked to briefly when they got back, put it simply.

'No problem, mate - no shortage of squats in London - it was nice while it lasted.'

Donnie gathered his thoughts to answer Angel while Danu answered Tony.

'It's the ruling class - it's not enough for them to live off the backs of the workers, they need to humiliate anyone with a different view on life.' Donnie was amused at her cut-glass accent extolling the Socialist credo, but he made sure not to smile openly.

'Just to go back to what Angel was saying. I didn't show my property expert the tenancy agreement, but I've read it carefully and discussed it with him and I'm pretty sure that it will be difficult for them to get an eviction order. The only problem is that they might tie you up in red tape and petty little restrictions - like inspecting the state of the buildings and all that.' They looked grim at the prospect.

'It might be an idea to make sure there is no weed on show - a drugs bust might give them the ammunition they need.'

That had lit the blue touch-paper. His head was still ringing when he drove back to town an hour later and any thoughts of a night with Danu evaporated.

## **CHAPTER SIX**

### **_A new resolve_**

###

The A1 was a fine place on a Sunday night, Donnie thought, not for the first time. The road was almost clear except for the regular convoys of HGVs with their 'must be there by Monday' goods. A bit of moody Marvin Gaye on the stereo and the dreamy late-night mood was complete. He had been home for his Mum's sixty-fifth, and was filled with the usual mixture of nostalgia, regret and love (though he would not - would never - have used that word).

His sister had been there with her husband, five-year old Jack and the new baby. Donnie had been seriously perturbed when his sister had breast-fed the baby at the dinner table - though he knew he should not have been. His parents made a valiant job, he thought, of adapting to the modern world in their midst, and had carried on trying to foist more lamb or roast potatoes onto everyone's plate.

He wondered what Sarah would have done if they had had kids - maybe the same, though he couldn't imagine his in-laws tolerating nipples in the dining room. He would never know now. Funny that - he always assumed that they would have a family - and now he wondered if he would ever even see her again.

One thing the trip had done was to make up his mind. Every month the bank emailed a list of internal vacancies to all the staff. One had caught his eye - working in the Cologne office. A new flat, new friends, a whole new start. He could put all of the unhappiness of the last few years behind him. If he did go for it though, he would need a reference - so maybe it was time to get his head down and concentrate on his bank work.

He had printed out the vacancy from the bank's intranet system on Friday. He had read it so many times he could recite it by heart.

**_Head of International Finance - Cologne East_**

__

_Due to imminent retirement, the Köln Ost (Cologne East) branch is looking for an English-speaking grade 3B manager to oversee the International Finance section. In this challenging role you will report to the head of International Operations and will supervise a dedicated team of approximately twelve staff in the analysis, management and support of international loans and investments. This will cover Euro and non-Euro finance markets, currency hedging, operational and investment loans. Experience of foreign exchange mechanisms is required. German language is a bonus but not a requirement for this position. _

What had he got to lose? At the worst, he would be knocked back immediately. It would be a small cut in money but Germany was supposed to be a lot cheaper than England - London especially.

Mondays were always busy, but he would be able afford a few minutes to dedicate to his future - he ran through the bullet points for his application, his foreign currency expertise, his management experience, his 'O' level German, his six months in Frankfurt and his freedom from family ties. He could see himself as a banking colossus, striding through the department, barking out orders in German to a corps of admiring underlings. He laughed at the thought, the image fading as he struggled to remember the German for 'sell' or 'buy'.

'Mercy, Mercy Me' finished and he replaced Marvin with Iron Maiden - it was time to push the pedal down and get home.

He needed that German job.

Donnie stood on the tube. He didn't mind that, but he did rather resent the Japanese student with the backpack, standing in front of him and bobbing around trying to read the station names. Each bobbing movement thrust a cycle helmet into his face. He could complain, but he preferred to sigh loudly instead, which didn't improve his mood, or influence the student.

Work had been tough this week, and now he was headed back to his empty flat for the weekend.

As he dodged the helmet his thoughts turned to his future. One thing that the business with the Foundation had done was to lift him out of the pit of routine - work, drink, sleep, work. Suddenly there was something else to do, other people to talk to. He couldn't say that the people at the Foundation were friends, but they weren't the same as Bill or any of the other grumbling office types, plodding through their days until retirement rewarded them with a few years of cruises and winter-sun holidays in Spain.

One of the books that Sarah swore by was 'The Game of Life and How to Play It' - a self help book that the bank had dished out on one of the many management trainee courses they had been sent on. He had no idea where his copy was but Sarah's was in Leeds, along with half a shelf of similar titles.

He could remember that one piece of advice on meeting people was to determine what you wanted from them, write it down and then tick off the list as each item was achieved. When everything was ticked off, you were then free to forget about them. He had always considered it the most pernicious piece of advice in a handbook full of questionable morality.

The memory of the book came back to him as he considered his relationship with everyone in the Foundation. He had nothing to gain from them - well, maybe some sex from Danu - but he owed the others nothing.

He needed to forget them all and concentrate on getting his life back on track. What he needed was a new start, a new beginning - somewhere out of London where no-one knew he was a failure. Somewhere he could re-invent himself.

Likewise, their only regard for him was for what he could do for them. He was useful, so they welcomed him. Once he ceased to be useful he doubted they could be bothered with him. It was time to leave the Foundation people to look after themselves. He would miss them - Danu in particular - but they would have to survive without him, and he would have to get on without them. It was time for him to finally grow up and get his career on track.

He needed to have a good think about what he wanted to do. Easier said than done. What he really wanted was another Sarah, and this time he would really try to make it a success. But where could he find her? It wouldn't be Danu. He was certain of that. He was fond of her, and the sex was marvellous but he could never imagine a life of goats, earthen walls and dandelion coffee - and he was sure that Danu would never be content with shopping in Tesco's or even Waitrose, and toiling away as PA to the CEO of an FT 500.

He was almost laughing at the thought when the cycle helmet caught him in the face, and he began to protest, but the backpack and attached student were retreating through the doors. They had arrived at Kings Cross and the tube emptied of tourists and sightseers, leaving the grey army of clerks, accountants and HR executives, on their way home to their various Friday night routines.

## **CHAPTER SEVEN**

### **_Up to town for the day_**

###

There was a knock on the door of Donnie's flat. Maybe the bell wasn't working? He opened it to find a nine-year old who was too little to reach the bell.

'Uncle Donnie' - she held her hands out for a hug and he creakily bent down to pick her up.

'Sunny - mmmmph - where's Bryony - or are you with Jake?' No 'Mummy' or 'Daddy' for those two.

He looked around for a hippy, but the only people on the street were middle-management types venturing out to the shops in their shabby weekend clothes. A parking warden eyed him suspiciously, but he knew the car had a residents sticker proudly displayed.

'I come on my own - Danu said I could.' She had that look about her that said that this was a liberal interpretation of the truth.

'You came all the way on the train by yourself?' He asked. She nodded.

'Have you had breakfast?' She shook her head.

He got her in front of some juice and cornflakes and phoned the farm.

'Rainbow Foundation' Danu sounded hesitant.

'Danu - it's me - Sunny has just arrived.'

'Oh thank God for that - we had no idea where she'd gone. We thought she'd gone into Westwick or something.'

'She said you told her she could come here.'

'Hmmm - She wanted to go to the Science Museum. I told her you might take her sometime - not right now - but you know how excitable she is. I'm sorry, Donnie.'

'Yeah well, never mind - I'll take her and bring her back to the farm. How did she get the fare?'

'Dunno - ask her. I'll go and tell Bryony where she is.' Danu hung up, and Donnie returned to the breakfast table, contemplating how popular he would be with Bryony.

Sunny had eaten half a bowl of cornflakes - only a few spoonfuls had somehow missed her mouth and spilt over the table - less than when Donnie was eating, he thought.

He commenced the interrogation. She had gotten the address from Jake's address book, and grilled Danu about how you travelled up to London. Then, a few days later, it seemed she had gone down to the station and just walked onto the platform and then onto the London train.

A ticket inspector had asked her where her 'Mummy' was and she said 'back there' gesturing back towards where she thought the farm was. He told her to make sure she held on tight to Mummy's hand when she got to London, and left her alone.

No-one seemed to bother her on the Tube - she had walked through the manned gate at Liverpool Street, and under the barrier at West Hampstead. She asked the parking warden for directions, under the impression that he was a policeman, and he had accompanied her to Donnie's flat.

Donnie was no expert on parenting and he wondered if he should take her straight home, but as he hadn't seen the Science Museum for years himself, he decided to reward her naughtiness by taking her along.

'Ok, Sunny, you win. I'm going to get a shave and then we'll go to the museum.' Another kiss on the stubble rewarded him, and he retreated to the bathroom.

When he came back, clean-shaven and clean-shirted, Sunny was crouched over Donnie's laptop, tapping at the keys.

'It's got a password, Sunny, you won't be able to get in.'

'Yes I can - I've got a stick.'

He looked over her shoulder - she was examining a spreadsheet of Donnie's projected cash flow.

'Oooh you owe a lot of money, Uncle Donnie.'

'What's this stick?'

She pointed at a memory stick, stuck in the side of the laptop.

'I got it off a boy in school.'

'That was very generous of him.'

'He doesn't know yet.'

'Oh'.

Sunny proved to have an immaculate sense of timing. They were on the Tube to South Kensington. The carriage was half-full of families heading to the shops and museums.

'Uncle Donnie - those pictures of ladies on your computer - are they what they call porn?'

'It's rude to pry, Sunny,' he said, lamely and found something intensely interesting in the free paper.

Donnie was exhausted by the time they reached the farm, but Sunny was still buzzing. At least on the Tube back she was pre-occupied showing him pictures from the NASA spaceflight book he had bought her. In the car she prattled on about school and Angel's boys - who were stupid and teased her, apparently.

'Why are you so keen on science?' She seemed to be something of a cuckoo in the nest with her parents. To him, they seemed ready to believe any cock-and-bull story so long as it had the word 'spirituality' attached to it.

'Girls are good at science. Richard says they're not, but he's wrong - he's wrong about everything.' Richard was one of Angels kids - the older one, he thought.

'What about...' he struggled to remember what Jake revered.

'What about God and that.' He concluded, lamely.

Sunny gave this a little thought. After nearly a minute, she responded.

'Jake says that when you're little, you can't properly know the divide.'

'Divine?' Donnie half-corrected her, but she carried on.

'So I got to wait till I grow up, but - can you keep a secret?'

'Yes, of course.'

'I think it's like Father Christmas is for little ones.'

'You don't believe in...'

'Course not - I'm nine and that's too old for Father Christmas. I think that when you get old enough you start believing in the Divine instead - but I asked a teacher, and she says that lots of people don't.'

'Why is that a secret?'

'It's not fair to tell little ones that Santa Claus don't exist, so it's not fair to tell grown-ups that the Divine doesn't exist - 'cept for people like you who know how to use computers and all that.'

When they finally arrived and negotiated the welcome from the dogs, Donnie got a wary kiss from Bryony and a hug from Jake.

Danu kept him awake for a considerable part of the night.

Donnie sat on the bench outside the farmhouse, drinking in the morning sun, and avoiding drinking the dandelion coffee. Danu was instructing him in horticulture and he was allowing the buzz of her words to join the buzz of the bees that were investigating the lavender borders to the kitchen garden.

Jake clumped up from the Earthship, his wellingtons denoting his intention to spend the Sunday in honest labour. Donnie wondered if he should feel guilty about not offering to lend a hand with the shovel or the hoe, but he excused himself on the grounds of ignorance.

'Morning Donnie - sleep well?' Jake didn't wink, but Donnie could hear the eye closing in his voice.

'As well as can be expected.' Donnie replied, carefully keeping his own eyes wide open. Danu nudged him, quick and hard, in the ribs.

'If you two schoolboys are thinking of growing up soon, just let me know - it would be good to have an adult to talk to.'

Jake coughed and changed the subject.

'Donnie, Angel might have come up with a bit of new info - they might be planning a new tack. Do you wanna come over and have a word?'

Jake pointed to Angel working in one of the numerous vegetable beds and walked on past a low hedge. The battered red of the tractor was visible yards further on and he headed for this, leaving Donnie to announce his presence to the stooping woman.

'Want a hand?'

She straightened up at his call, holding a bunch of beetroot in her left hand and a trowel in her right.

'Thanks but I'm only getting some for the stew - I've got enough now.' She walked over to show him the muddy roots, with their bright red stems and curly green leaves. Beetroot - one of the few foods Donnie truly hated.

'They look good,' he said.

'First crop of the year.' Angel was forty-ish, but her clear brown eyes, curly black hair and open stare made her look much younger, when you were close up. Unlike Bryony and Danu, she was wearing a bra, a black one which could be seen quite clearly through the white cheesecloth top. She wore a dark floral skirt that reached to the tops of her black wellies.

She clasped her hands around the beets, holding them between her breasts like the offering of a supplicant before the priest.

'Jake said that you think they are up to something?'

Her smile fell, leaving an anxious and fearful expression.

'I don't want to leave - my eldest - Richard - he has only just gone up to big school, and...' Donnie held up his hand to try and stop her before she deluged him with more of her personal problems, but she was not to be stopped by such an ineffectual gesture.

'I don't want my boys to grow up without proper schooling. My people are travellers - but I don't want that life for my boys. I want something settled. There was a time for travellers, once - but things have moved on and that life is out of date. I don't mind them being farmers, or even horse trainers, but I don't want them travelling around, doing odd jobs and laying asphalt. I'm not being a snob - it was a good life, once, but now that's over and we need roots.'

She paused for breath and he took the opportunity to turn the conversation away from the problems of family life.

'How long have you been here?'

'Seven years, I suppose - I met Danu at a farmers' market - I was selling baskets and she had a little stall with cakes and pastries. I was having man trouble and she invited me to stay here. Didn't reckon with my Dad, though?'

'Your Dad?'

She pointed at the static caravan sitting on old railway sleepers at the edge of the farmyard. It looked pleasant enough in the daytime, with two old chimney pots either side of the door, filled with promising-looking buds.

'Yeah - he followed us here, said it was my duty to look after him.'

'But he doesn't live with you and the boys?'

She shook her head and pointed down past the Earthship to a similar but smaller construction, half dirt-packed tyres, half wood and glazing units of all sizes \- half a dozen of them cobbled together into some kind of sun-lounge on the eastward flank.

'He's in our place most of the time, but we only have the two bedrooms. Come on in and have a cup of tea.'

She walked in front of him, as the path was only wide enough for one, and he admired the sway of her hips inside her floral skirt. Maybe it was something in the rural air, but being on the farm had certainly charged up his sex drive.

'I don't want the boys growing up like their father.'

Family matters had come to the fore again but he was content to listen for the moment. They were sitting at a red-painted wooden table and Donnie had a mug of real tea with cows milk in it. Angel had kicked off her wellies and sat with her somewhat grimy feet on a stool. Between the joy of a good strong cup of tea and the look of a woman in a thin shirt with the sunlight streaming though the window at her back, Donnie was in a hedonistic heaven.

'That's why I'm so intent on staying here. We can't afford the rents around here.'

'Right - What about council housing?'

'I don't want them being brought up on some council estate or in some dingy B & B.'

'I don't suppose their father could help out...'

'Richard is nearly twelve - I think he's seen his father five or six times in his whole life. The only time I see him is when he's broke and sorry for himself. He comes here, borrows money off whoever he can, gets drunk and tries to fuck me.'

'That's not very lady-like.' Her father entered the kitchen. He wore a countryman's outfit - shooting coat with leather patches at the elbows and a shotgun pad on the chest, corduroy trousers, big brown boots and to complete the ensemble he held a green trilby in his left hand while extending his right in greeting.

'Hi Tony.' Donnie always felt some fellow-feeling with previous drinking partners, and Tony's eyes seem to twinkle at him.

'I thought you was going to get the eviction notice pulled - you're a lawyer, right? Don't seem to be working out, eh?' he said it with a smile, as if it was a joke, but the smile hadn't reached his small, brown eyes.

'No - no, I'm not a lawyer - I work in a bank. I offered to help Jake out, but really I'm not a lawyer, I'm just seeing what I can do.'

Tony sniffed loudly, and gathered a chair.

'Any tea for me?'

Angel's mouth formed a downward crescent of a frown - whether at her father or at Donnie's lack of legal qualifications, he didn't know. She got up and squeezed past him to the stove and put the kettle back on it. She stood there while it boiled - a pity, he thought, having enjoyed the touch of her hips against his shoulder.

'I've met a few lawyers,' Tony said, while Angel's frown deepened. Tony didn't elaborate but Donnie could imagine that he wasn't talking about conveyancing. Angel busied herself at the stove for a minute or two, before Donnie had the pleasure of feeling her hips slide past him as she re-took her place at the table, passing a mug of tea - still with tea-bag - to her father.

'Squatters rights,' Tony said, with the air of someone who had said it fifty times before.

'Something to look at, I suppose - but Jake says you got tipped off about what they're doing.' Donnie didn't want to put words in Angel's mouth.

'Yeah - I work part-time - there's a builder in town and there's a bit too much work for Pat, his secretary, so I help out Tuesday to Thursday. You know - cash in hand, just a bit extra.' Donnie responded with a nod, ignoring Tony when he muttered 'peanuts' under his breath.

'Well, Pat's sister, Julie, works for Mr Rutter, the solicitor.' Tony joined in with a muttered curse but Angel and Donnie ignored him.

'Me and Pat and Julie meet up for a cup of tea and a cake on Thursday lunchtime - our treat, you know? - There's a cafe in the high street, not far from Mr Rutter's and Webster's - that's where Pat and I work.'

'So last week, she - Julie, that is - said did I know that the farm was going to be sold to Webster's.'

'I said - of course not and it couldn't be 'cos the owner is out of the country. But she says that after Mr Rutter had Jake and you in the other Saturday, he was in a bad temper for the whole of the next few days.'

'Not surprising, I suppose.' Donnie felt quite proud of himself.

'Yeah, but he came in Thursday smiling like the Cheshire Cat and called Jack Webster.'

'How did she know that it was him?'

'She was taking his tea in - and he says 'I think we have the answer to your problems, Mr Webster' - then he saw she was in the room, and shut up until she went out.'

'Did she have any idea what they are up to?'

'No - he's keeping it close to his chest. He even printed a couple of letters himself - gave them to her already sealed, for posting, and he never does that.'

'Never?'.

'She does all the typing - Mr Rutter hasn't got any time for computers. He's got one, but he gets her to do all his letters and that.'

Donne was trying to word the question 'is that all' more diplomatically, when she resumed.

'One was to the land registry and the other to the court.'

'Does she know what that might mean?'

'No, but if it involves Jack, then that means building. And Jack's in a good mood now - he's been like a bear with a sore head since Taggart's meadow fell through.'

'Taggart's meadow?' Donnie felt he had lost the thread.

'Mr Webster has just cancelled a development in Taggart's meadow - he was effing and blinding about that the other week - something to do with Mr Tayle.'

'Mr Tayle?' Donnie was patting his pockets - he should have had a notebook - he was getting lost in the local personalities. He gave up for the moment. He felt a headache coming on. He took a mouthful of tea and started again..

'So you think they've hatched something to...'

'Bastard's up to something' Tony declared, authoritatively.

Donnie decided it was time to leave. He had got as much out of Angel as he could. There was nothing concrete to work on. They had probably just asked the court for an eviction notice - that would take months, if you believed Bill.

'All we can do, really, is keep an eye on them and let me know anything you find out. Donnie stood to leave. Tony got up at the same time and went through the door before him, holding it open.

'She's a fine woman, Angela - doesn't deserve a dad like me.' Donnie didn't feel it was his business to contradict him, and they walked in silence past the vegetable gardens, which were showing several different kinds of plant - none of which Donnie could recognise.

Tony left him as they reached his caravan. It was suspended on railway sleepers just outside the old workman's cottage. Stephen was sitting outside the cottage in the weak sunlight, reading a thick tattered paperback.

Donnie waved, and as he reached Stephen he glanced at the book.

'Proust? - heavy stuff, eh?' Donnie had never read Proust and never intended to. The last novel he read must have been when he was eighteen or nineteen. 'Love in the Time of Cholera' it was - he had started it to impress Sharon Little. It didn't, and he never finished it.

Stephen looked him fleetingly in the eyes before staring over his shoulder at the sky.

'Used to be an English teacher - never lost the habit. Third time I've read 'Swann's Way' now.'

'Right. What made you give up teaching? Nice life that, and a good pension.' Whenever anyone asked Donnie why he stayed in the bank, he always blamed the pension. He was beginning to believe it himself.

Stephen grimaced and shook his head. His long, thin hair stayed in the air for a few seconds after he stopped, giving him the appearance of some cult guitar player from the seventies.

'I couldn't hack it - being a teacher. I like English, but I don't like kids. Fucking little animals, kids.'

Donnie was tempted to smile and walk past him and on to the farmhouse and Danu, but it seemed rude. Here on the farm everyone had all the time in the world, it seemed. Stephen had put the book down, marking his place with what looked like a folded crisp packet, and was almost looking at Donnie. So Donnie sat on the bench beside him and looked reflectively at the sky where Stephen had been staring. A small white cloud was the object of their scrutiny. It floated, still and insignificant in the blue sky, surrounded by others of its kind, with the sun peeking out from behind one, and then another, as they sat alternately staring and squinting at the sky.

'So what happened then?' Donnie said.

'Well, it started ok - I had a suit, a nice tie and that.' Stephen glanced briefly at Donnie, through his thinning hair, before returning his gaze to the sky.

'It wasn't one of those places you wear a gown and mortarboard, then?' Donnie said.

'Nah - it was only a minor public school - you wouldn't have heard of it - little place in Gloucester.' He shook his head slowly, recreating the past.

'The headmaster introduced me to the class - Year nine - that's thirteen year olds. All in their suits and white shirts. Black shoes - no trainers.' He ground to a halt and Donnie was wondering if he was waiting for another prompt, when he started again.

'It went ok for about ten minutes, but then they had me sussed. One of them asked to go to the toilet. I said no - I knew they were supposed to wait, to make sure they had been during the break. I knew that in exceptional circumstances I could call the nurse and get her to take them. I knew that.'

Donnie could see he was rehearsing an old argument.

'But he asked me again. Said he was bursting. So I treated him like an adult. He was gone five minutes when the second one asked, then the third, then the fourth - I'd let one go, I couldn't stop the others. Then I tried to put my foot down. I refused the next one. I told them that I knew what they were doing, and they started banging on the desks, quietly first, then more and more. After five minutes of the noise, the head came back, with the four kids in tow. All the others stopped the banging.'

'What did he do?'

'He gave them all detention for a week. He said they were to sit quietly and copy out the prayers from the assembly prayer book they all carried - said it might heal their sorry souls. He took me to the staff room and made me a cup of tea.'

'Sounds like a nice man.'

'He was. He was a really nice man. I did another three classes before he sacked me.'

'He was right to - really, he was. Maybe if I was in a state school I could have got more training or whatever. I had a degree and I didn't want to do teacher training. Wanted to be earning and living properly. When you finish college, you're twenty-two or whatever and you don't want to be a student all over again - more revising, more tests.'

'Public schools don't need a certificate. You say you can do it, they put you in charge of a pack of little animals. It's your fault if you fuck up. Your fault if you can't hack it.'

'What did you do then?' Donnie interjected quickly - Stephen was getting emotional and he didn't want to have to handle him if he started crying - he never could handle Sarah when she started crying. Maybe if he had...

He was saved from the reverie by Stephen.

'The thing was, I'd sunk what little money I had left into a little flat in Gloucester. When they sacked me, I had less than a month's money. I tried to get another job - but I wasn't qualified. I tried a job in a shop - I couldn't handle the money. I went on the dole, but they stopped it because they said I wasn't trying hard enough.'

'So I lost the flat. I had to go back to London, try staying with friends.'

'Your parents?' Donnie asked.

'Step-dad - never got on. Last time I went home, just before the last term at college, he took me to the station - left my mum at home - told me to fuck off and never come back - so I did.'

'I just sort of drifted. Ended up in a squat. Don't know why I'm here, really - I just followed Billy.'

'How did Billy end up here - he doesn't strike me as the spiritual sort.'

'No - though he is quite into philosophy - don't let the ex-army man act fool you. He's uneducated but he's not stupid.'

'He knew Tony from years ago and heard that he was in Pentonville, so he went to see him a couple of times. He was only in for theft but he'd absconded from an open prison, so they stuck him in there to keep the cockroaches company.'

'When he got out, Billy agreed to help him move up here - get the caravan in place, all that stuff. Billy claimed to have an HGV license, but we didn't need it, in the end.'

'We came up for the week - that was eighteen months ago.'

Anxious to change the subject, Donnie remembered Frankie .

'How about Frankie? I guess she has an interesting tale.'

'I suppose so - but it's hard to know what it is - she hasn't got a good grasp on reality.'

Donnie made an inquisitive sound and Stephen contemplated the sky, ruminating about his house-mate. He was into the second minute of introspection when Billy came back, a clutch of beetroots in one hand and some earthy roots in the other.

'Dinner. I'd better get these beetroots on - take forever.' He glared at Donnie, as if waiting for him to challenge his estimation. Donnie had no idea about beetroots, and was not interested.

'What's the other things?' he said, pointing at the muddy roots.

'Jerusalem artichokes - very nice, but they make you fart something awful. These are last year's, mind - bit dry, but we don't mind, do we?' The question was not aimed at anyone.

'What do you reckon about Frankie?' Stephen had decided to pass the buck to Billy, it seemed.

Billy looked perplexed in addition to his habitual aggression.

'Donnie was asking.' Stephen indicated Donnie with a thumb, while looking over Billy's head to the clouds beyond. Billy pursed his lips and let out a long exhalation, indicating that he, too, needed to consider the answer carefully.

'It's not easy to say. I mean, in conventional terms people might says she's a bit, well, mental.'

'Not all there.' Stephen added.

'Nah, you're wrong there - she's not, like, absent most of the time, like you, you fucker.' He thrust his chin at Stephen in a wasted gesture - Stephen's eyes, as ever, being elsewhere.

'Nah, she doesn't know the difference between reality and what's in her head. I think she's had some time on a secure ward, you know - she thinks people are plotting to get her back there. She'll tell you she's hiding out here - but try and find out who she's hiding from? No chance.'

'Where did she come from?' Donnie asked, moving over to let Billy sit between him and Stephen. Billy laid the vegetables on the ground and clapped his palms together to shake the dirt off them.

'We was in the squat together - me, Stephen and Frankie - load of other people as well, mind you. We knew the police was coming in with the bailiffs - they was knocking the place down to build some shite office block or something - so we was all looking around for a new gaff.'

He took out a tin and started rolling a cigarette - Donnie couldn't see any sign of dope in it.

'It was Tony told us about this place - he wan't sure it was ok, but I was thinking that a bit of country air would suit me.'

'And me.' Stephen added. He gestured to Billy with a two-fingered rolling motion and Billy passed the tin to him, lighting his own incredibly thin cigarette with a disposable lighter.

'Well, Tony was inside at the time.' Billy gave Donnie a hard look, to see how he reacted to having a jail-bird on the site. Donnie kept his face expressionless and Billy carried on.

'So when we got our money for that week, we just jumped the train to Colchester. That was before they re-opened the station in Westwick. But as it was only five miles or so we walked out here. Jake was real cool about it - they had the space in the cottage - it just needed a bit of fixing up. It was summer then and it worked out ok. We got our benefit without too much hassle, which is fucking amazing, but the harvest hadn't started then and there was fuck all work around.'

'When Tony got out, he called in a favour and got the caravan. I was up for driving the wagon for him, but the guy he leant on did it gratis, like. Shame - I hadn't driven an HGV since the army. I'd go back to driving but you always get some jumped up fuck-wit telling you how to load it, how to park it or moaning that it's too dirty and the punters can't see the fucking company logo. Fuck 'em.'

'And Frankie?' Donnie asked while Billy re-lit his match-like cigarette.

'Turned up a couple of weeks after we arrived. I was fucking amazed - she doesn't do the Tube or trains, but she'd got a bus and there she was - Crazy fucking bat, but she can do stuff when she wants to. She hears voices sometimes, but she can choose to ignore them, you know?. Her main thing is the paranoia - thinks everyone is out to get her. Poor old girl - truth is, no-one gives a fuck. It'd be better if they were after her - at least someone would be interested.'

He ground the remains of his cigarette into the ground.

'We look after her - me and soft lad.' He gestured at Stephen.

'Three can live as cheaply as two' He laughed 'She can't face the benefit office - ain't go no ID anyway.'

'Does she ever come out?' Donnie asked - never having seen her around the farm.

'Yeah - but she's got this thing about the sun - I don't understand it, meself, but she'll only come out it's proper cloudy - won't come out at night, neither.' He shrugged.

'You can have a laugh with her - she's not stupid or anything, just don't expect to make a lot of sense of it.'

'Right - anyway, I'd better get back to it.'

'Do you want this when I'm finished?' Stephen waved the Proust paperback at Donnie.

'Nah it's all right - more of a telly man, myself.' Stephen shuddered and Donnie walked on to the old farmhouse, to the sound of Billy's chuckle

'You never fancied Billy or Stephen?' Donnie was laying on his back on the circular mattress, one foot stuck out of the quilt, and he was enjoying the slightly colder air playing through his toes. Danu was half lying on him, her leg on top of his two, while she played with the hair on his chest.

'Hah - you're an insensitive left brainer, otherwise you might have noticed that Billy and Stephen are more than just room-mates.'

'Really - but Billy's so...' Donnie trailed off trying to think of the right word for Billy's aggressive, confrontational style. He gave up and said, rather lamely.

'He was in the army.'

'And there's no gays in the army, right?' He absorbed the information, trying to make it fit with the two lads he had met. Then he realised she had changed the subject.

'You didn't answer my question, though.' He poked her, gently, in the ribs and she poked him back, not so gently.

'Well, I did - you know, a couple of times with Stephen. You're not the jealous type, are you?' He tried to picture Stephen with her and failed miserably - Billy, he could understand.

'Not Billy, though?'

'No - he's...' she paused for a moment.

'You know, people aren't one thing or another - straight or gay, I mean.' Donnie thought about his times in the communal showers at school, or the one season he had played football at college. He could detect no attraction for the other blokes at all. Still, never say never. Danu was talking while he speculated.

'But Billy - he's well over on the gay side of the line.'

'And Stephen?'

'More like just past the middle. We got it on a couple of times, but he felt guilty about it - couldn't tell Billy and he knows I tell the truth - I don't believe in hypocrisy.'

'Where are you on the line?' Donnie said.

'Pretty much like Stephen, but on the hetero side.'

She moved her hand down his body and demonstrated her interest in heterosexuality but before he gave in he asked one last question.

'So you've done it with women?'

'It? Just one thing? I've got a better imagination than that.' After that, he lost interest in speaking.

'What about you, then Mr Logic? What is your sex life?'

'Well, I dunno really. I was married but we divorced, over six months ago, now. So I, kinda went from no sex at all to quite a lot.'

'Girlfriend?'

'Not as such - there were a couple of girls, but mostly one-nighters.'

'You pay for it?'

'No! - Well, sometimes in a sort of a way. Not really prostitutes. Though, actually, a couple probably were.'

'Did you do that when you were married?' She was sounding slightly horrified - was it horrible? Maybe.

'No - even the last four months, I was completely faithful. Before that, though - I cheated on her a couple of times - I'm ashamed of that, but when I was working away from home - in Germany - I'd meet girls in the bar, you know. She never knew, though. That wasn't why we divorced. She just thought I was a loser - that was it, really.'

'Oh, I'm sure she didn't.'

'You didn't know her. She'd have thought Bill Gates was a slacker.'

'Who?'

'It doesn't matter. I was being unfair. She just wanted someone who took life seriously.'

'Look - I'll see what I can find out about the legal position and phone you next week - ok? - Don't worry about Angel's theories - I'm sure she's got the wrong end of the stick,' Donnie said as he clasped hands with Jake. Bryony held back a little as Sunny pulled him down to her level for a kiss on the cheek.

Danu had already kissed him, long and hard, before leading him into the Earthship to make his good-byes.

Turning out of the farm onto the London road he waved to Danu as she closed the gate behind him.

## **CHAPTER EIGHT**

### **_Confidentiality_**

###

Donnie was singing along to The Rolling Stones - in as much as you could sing if you didn't know the words. The drive back to London was a pleasure. He had transcribed the tenancy agreement and the bank details for the Foundation, all ready to work on. He had a list of the people involved and, best of all, the memories of another night with Danu.

For most of the drive he thought of Danu - he didn't love her, he wasn't even sure he fancied her, but the tamest word you could use to describe her was uninhibited. He really needed to buy some condoms before he went back - her supply was getting seriously depleted.

Once on the M25 though, his thoughts turned to business. What could he do? Jake was adamant that there was no will - he said that the only time a lawyer was consulted was over the tenancy agreement, and if there was a will it would have been an old one in favour of Cecilia's ex-husband.

He had the Foundation bank details - maybe he could start with that? The Stones had finished and he stuck another CD in without looking at what it was, so he hit the North Circular to the sound of 'London Calling'.

'Debbie, can you look up this one for me - claims she's mislaid all the details and the missing account would have enough to cover the overdraft - you know the sort of thing.'

Debbie looked up from whatever she was doing and nodded without speaking - her mouth was full of the doughnut she was eating, and she was being polite for once. As she logged on to the orphan accounts system, Donnie made a point of looking in the other direction, looking back only as she finished the password with three numbers off the top row of the keyboard - 0 - 4 - 5. Mentally repeating them he couldn't help doing the calculation - they forced you to change the password every six months, so that's forty-five divided by two - twenty-two and a half years - can't be right, surely the system wasn't that old?.

'What details have you got Mr Stevens?' - her high-pitched voice was always a surprise, coming out of such a large body.

'Johnson, Sarah, 28th August 1953, 8 Longmoor Road...' Donnie reeled off the details reading from a post-it. Debbie pushed the specs back up her nose to peer at the screen.

'Nothing - any previous addresses?'

'No'

Donnie carried on for a few minutes, drawing a blank as he knew he would. He wasn't interested in the fictional Mrs Johnson. Now he had the precious digits. Like everyone else he knew she would have the same password on everything - he'd borrowed her main system one a few days ago after deliberately locking his own computer - security took hours to re-set them. Her password for the main system was Aslam032.

It was very nearly twelve-thirty when Debbie logged off to go and get some more lunch.

Donnie shared an office with Dave, and Dave generally went out to the sandwich bar at twelve-thirty on the dot. Donnie always waited for his lunch until one-thirty to keep the control and command post staffed at all times. He also knew that Dave never logged off. So ten minutes after Dave left, Donnie hit the keyboard on Dave's machine before it timed out, and used it to log on to orphan accounts. He stuck in Debbie's user name and the password Aslam045 - and the screen opened with 'Welcome back Deborah' in bold letters on top of the inter-bank logo.

Two minutes later Donnie had all he needed. He was sure Debbie wouldn't notice the last log-in time. If anyone did, the big fat finger pointed at Dave - though Donnie did wonder if he was devious enough to let Dave take the rap. He just hoped it would never come to that.

Donnie sat at the kitchen table. The chilli con carne and rice was half eaten, still in its black microwaveable carton. He had taken out an A5 notebook and was re-writing the information he had gleaned from the scraps of paper in his pockets. First all the names of the people involved:

  * Anthony Rutter - Solicitor
  * Jack Webster - Builder
  * Grayson Tayle - Cousin
  * Cecilia Thompson \- Owner

Then, from the bank account, he had the London address of the original Foundation - he knew this was now defunct. He also had the private addresses of the people authorised to operate the bank account. Jake, Bryony and the two other original members all had the farm's address, but Cecilia's was a London address, out in the Finsbury Park area. Amavajita Chatagee also had a London address in Holland Park. Donnie could investigate them, but after more than fifteen years, it was unlikely that he would get anything.

Amavajita and Cecilia were last seen in India and were probably still there. Maybe Donnie should think about getting a private eye in India. But then, he wouldn't know how to get a private eye in England, let alone India.

At least Donnie had bought them some time. No doubt Rutter would put something before the court, and Donny would put in the expenses - maybe Jake and the others would stump up some money to pay whatever was left. He could see the legal wrangling taking quite some time - time enough to trace Cecilia - he hoped so.

On the other hand, he didn't want it to drag on for the rest of the year. In his mind's eye he could see himself as the Foundation's saviour - admiring looks from Danu, and more he hoped - but it was time to move on. He needed a new life, and the farm was not his future. But first, he would finish what he started.

But he was stumped - where to go from here? He contemplated the pad for several minutes before reaching for the bottle of wine he had opened to go with the chilli. It didn't go very well, but he blamed the chilli, not the wine - and poured a sizeable glass.

Jake had said that the Foundation hadn't been registered, but Donnie was sure that the bank could not have issued a business account without a company registration number. He had issued a couple of business accounts himself and he was sure they checked online.

He got the laptop out and, after half an hour of fruitless searching, found the government website. The tenancy agreement was with 'The Indradhanu Spirit Foundation' and he tried that on the search without any luck - though plenty of variations on 'Indra'. He tried 'Rainbow' and got over a thousand matches. That probably meant that they had been given the bank account as a society - in those days, any old group of people could open an account so long as they had some sort of written constitution and the name of a treasurer.

Donnie had a technique that worked when all else had failed - he decided to 'leave it to his subconscious' - other people might have, unkindly, called this 'giving up'.

The A to Z had tiny numbers on the road markings, so Cecilia's old address - according to the bank records - should be mid-way between Bavaria Road and Blenheim Road, but he was looking at a small, new-built Tesco. So much for that one.

Well, he told himself, at least he had ticked off one address, and wandering around Finsbury Park was a cheap way to spend a Thursday night.

Maybe the Holland Park address would be more fruitful. He looked at his watch - he could just make it. It was either that or going home to watch something vacuous on the telly. He turned towards the tube but then remembered his need for condoms. He turned back to the shop.

'Are you looking for anyone in particular?'

Donnie jumped back from the bank of bell-pushes and looked at the questioner. She had a short, white coat, open to the waist, even though a light rain had begun to fall. The half-open coat revealed a deep-cut dress that showed a touch of black lace and a generous portion of tanned cleavage. When he raised his eyes to her head, the heavy make-up painted a doll-like face, under the long, black hair.

'No - I mean, yes. I'm looking for an old friend of mine who used to live here - Amaka Chatagee.'

'Sorry dear, don't know anyone of that name, and I've lived here for ten years.'

'It was quite a while ago. Fifteen years or so, I guess. Just a long shot, as I was in the area.'

'Oh well - bit of wasted trip for you. I live on the second floor up there - not much of a view, but cozy.'

Donnie was immediately aware of the small plastic bag containing two packets of condoms, and the hundred pounds in his wallet - intended for an office night out on the Friday.

Maybe Holland Park would not be as much of a write-off as Finsbury Park.

## **CHAPTER NINE**

### **_High Finance_**

###

Grayson opened the miniature whisky and poured half the bottle into the glass, topping up with water from a plastic bottle decorated with tartan and a small picture of Scottish mountains.

The bottles of 'genuine' highland spring-water were distributed about the room, perched on the widened chair-arms that, he supposed, were a designer's update on the coffee table. Why use two pieces of cheap furniture when you can make it look even cheaper by the use of a table'n'chair combination?

He had charmed the miniature out of one of the two female attendants that the hotel had provided to lay out the room. For the first time he was sitting at the board's table, to one side of a projection screen and facing the shareholders. Jack Webster was fussing beside him, playing with the controls of the projector, and shuffling papers and copies of the annual accounts. Annie was sitting at the same table, pointedly ignoring him, buffered as she was by her brother who sat at Grayson's side.

The room was now half-full of an interesting cross-section of the public. All shareholders in Sandon and Webster Construction, they ranged from three or four eighty-year olds, looking myopically around the room, to several men, younger than himself, wearing the tight-lipped expression that informed him that they were not going to accept another year with no dividends and they were prepared to tell the board exactly why they were not.

At a little after two, the doors were shut and silence gradually fell. Grayson started on the second half of the miniature as Jack gave the opening speech.

'Thank you all for coming to the annual meeting of Sandon and Webster Construction, and let me first say that I look forward to these get together's as a place where we can forge the resolutions and inspirations for the coming year, which we hope will be an exciting and demanding one.'

Silence greeted the opening. One of the older ladies looked like she would clap - but the silence around her convinced her to return her hands to her lap.

'The order of business, as usual, is the chairman's speech - that's me, by the way'. He paused for laughs. More silence filled a few seconds before he continued.

'Followed by a presentation of the accounts.'

'What about the dividend? Three years now!' Grayson recognised the source of the interruption. He had met him several times, but had not bothered to commit his name to memory.

'We'll come to that Daniel - all in good time.'

Daniel made a hissing sound, but subsided while Jack returned to the script.

'For the following item I have asked Mr Tayle, here - ' He waved a sheaf of A4 at Grayson 'to make a short speech on one of the bigger prospects for next year.'

Half the room regarded Grayson with the same suspicious look that they were giving Jack, while the other half looked at him blankly - presumably not understanding why one of the major shareholders was sharing a platform with Jack, rather than heckling from the floor.

'Firstly, to the accounts.' Jack fumbled with the remote and was blinded by the projector throwing up a balance sheet. Holding the sheaf of paper in front of his eyes, he moved to the side and carried on.

'As you can see..' He played with the remote again until a red dot appeared.

'As you can see, turnover is slightly down on last year. The general economy is not doing that well - though better than I expected under a Labour government.' He paused - again waiting for laughter that did not materialise, then carried on.

'Assets are a bit down, too - paying back loans and that, on a reduced turnover, only to be expected.' A certain amount of whispering could be heard, but Jack ignored it.

'Operating expenses are up a bit - wages and so on.'

'How much are your earning, Jack - have you taken a wage cut?' The shout came from the original heckler, but was applauded by a couple of others.

'That is disclosed under officers' salaries as you well know and, as it happens, I was paid over ten percent less than last year.' Jack blustered.

Grayson sipped his scotch and reflected that Jack made a point of paying himself generous expenses which of course were tax free. Jack also had a consultancy called 'Executive Home Design' which seemed to get all the drawing work - and was paid generously for it.

Still, Grayson couldn't complain. His publishing business was a rat's nest of little companies, each paying the other for imaginary work - he'd inherited it from his father and, once the accountant had explained it often enough, he understood enough to remember which one to use when he wanted another advance. Jack was in full flow now.

'Moving to profit and loss.'

'Other way round, isn't it, Jack?' The heckler was at it again, but Jack ignored it.

'You can see that with reduced income, increased expenditure and some increase in the fixed assets - that's two new wagons, a digger, two mixers and a trench-digger, if you need to know'.

'With that additional expenditure, I have to say we made a small loss last year.' A number of boos where heard from various places and Jack held up his hands to silence them - and almost succeeded.

'But, following my promise last year to pay a dividend, after the three years of non-payment...' More boos sounded from the truculent section of the audience. 'I can announce that we will be paying a dividend at the rate of three pence per one pound share.

Silence fell while the shareholders indulged in mental arithmetic. There was some grumbling as Jack continued.

'It isn't a lot - but I'm a man of my word - and by delaying some loan repayments and deferring some intended purchases, we will be able to meet the bill.'

'What purchases?' shouted one of the crowd.

'We have decided not to proceed with the development of Taggart's meadow - quite a costly venture as you know, and... ' but his words were drowned out by a vocal group centred around the heckler, who bellowed above the others.

'That was the big one - you said last year that the fortunes of the company depended on that development.'

'Is this your doing, Tayle? What have you been up to, you...' Eyes turned to Grayson and he nodded to Jack.

'That brings me to Grayson, here - he has a few words to say, please hear him out.' Grayson downed the rest of his scotch and filled the glass with water before standing, and taking the remote from Jack turned off the projector.

In the sudden silence, you could hear a pin drop, and he savoured the moment with timing of an actor, before starting out in a low voice that required the listeners to concentrate.

'As you know I am one of the principal shareholders and last year I was particularly vocal in demanding to see some renumeration from what was obviously a business enjoying considerable success. I believe I was right to insist, and you have seen some reward from that action in the form of this year's dividend.'

'Pennies!'

'It depends on your stake, I would say. For me it will be a welcome boost, and will of course lift the share price, which may provide a bonus for anyone who is thinking of selling.' That stopped all the muttering as the shareholders contemplated what their stake might now be worth.

'Now - I have put a proposal to Jack, which I am not at liberty to disclose at the moment, but which would provide a considerable profit to the company. I am asking you to take this on trust, but I will give you a concrete indication of my belief in the future.' Grayson paused for a leisurely drink from the glass before continuing.

'If anyone should wish to sell their shares at next Monday's price - whatever that is - plus a five pence supplement, I will offer to buy up to a holding of forty-nine percent, as I have no wish to obtain a controlling interest. First come, first served.'

Grayson stood by the reception desk in the hotel, waiting for the receptionist to finish with two retired couples whose needs were both extensive and complicated. Special pillows were promised, wake-up calls booked, morning papers ordered and advice given on the best way to view Colchester's various ruins. They had moved on to dietary restrictions and requirements.

He was not troubled by the wait. The young lady on reception had been chosen with an eye to keeping businessmen polite and satisfied and he ran his eyes appreciatively up and down her qualifications for the job. He only wished to book a taxi back to Westwick and was in no hurry to get back to his comfortable but empty home.

'Grayson - I thought I'd missed you.' He groaned inwardly and turned to face Jack Webster.

'Almost, Jack, almost.'

'How did it go - did anyone take you up on it?'

'It went well, I think. Only three of the wise ancients took me up on the sale offer - they were convinced that the share price will rise but, at their age, they reasoned that they may not live to see it. Less than four thousand pounds worth, I imagine.'

'You were right - I'll concede that now.'

'Very gracious, Jack. Indeed - the others might have wanted the money, especially at a five pence premium, but the thought of seeing their value rise when I was holding the certificates - well that would stick in their craw.'

'So now all we have to do is get the land.'

'One step at a time, old friend. One step at a time.'

Jack was nodding when a sudden thought struck him. He turned away from the tall, thin figure of Grayson to hide his expression. He had the feeling he sometimes got when playing poker.

He had been outflanked somehow and he did not know how. The firm was, technically losing money. Even allowing for the accountant's manipulation, it was probably only just better than breaking even.

Everything was riding on this damn farm. He had no title to it. He had no hold over Grayson, or Rutter. If either decided to change their minds, he had no Plan B to fall back on.

'Are you all right, Jack?'

'Me - ah, yes. I was just trying to remember something - VAT, you know - ah, I've got an inspection \- just trying to remember the date. Look, Grayson - can I give you a lift - we'll be packed up in another five minutes.'

'Very good of you, Jack. Thanks.'

## **CHAPTER TEN**

### **_Missing presumed dead_**

###

Donnie woke with a start. He gradually became aware that the phone was ringing. He hated the phone. The bed was warm. It was Saturday. He liked the bed. He was just getting re-acquainted with the pillow when the phone rang again. He staggered out of the bed and into the hall where the phone lived and picked it up from the cradle, heading straight back to the bed with it. His eyes were hardly open and the weight of last night's beer was closing his eyelids again.

'Hello - Donnie Stevens'.

'Donnie - it's Jake'.

'What time is it?' He knew the answer as he was looking at the bedside clock. 09:37.

'Dunno - been light for hours and the postman's been - had a hard night?'

Donnie choked back a profanity. 'What's up?' He knew Jake wasn't big on socialising. He probably wanted something. After drawing a blank on the bank account addresses, he had done nothing further about their tenancy agreement - for once he had been concentrating on his bank work. He had intended to be a reformed character. It was a shame that some of his workmates had decided on a Friday night drink. It wasn't a proper stag night, but one of them was getting married in a few weeks, so they behaved as if it was. It was all a bit vague but he remembered the curry and coming back home to a bottle of whisky and a late night film.

'There's been a development,' Jake said.

'With what? What development?' Donnie was looking forward to a cup of coffee rather than a guessing game.

'The solicitor, Rutter. Just like Angel said, he's asked the court to declare Cecilia dead.'

'Cecilia? Oh Mrs Thompson - is she?'

'Is she what?' Jake sounded exasperated, but Donnie's brain was still three-quarters asleep.

'Dead - is she dead?' Donnie was getting a little querulous, but he was almost awake.

' I don't know. It's just that, if they declare her dead, then her cousin inherits the farm and we get the push.'

'Has he written to you, or something?.'

'Yes, the bastard - I'll read it.' Jake paused and Donnie heard the sound of paper being unfolded and smoothed.

'A petition has been lodged before the court to have Mrs Cecilia Thompson, owner of Townend Farm, declared to be dead in view of her absence from all communication for a period of fourteen years. With the agreement of her cousin, Mr Grayson Tayle, we have also moved to take interim control of the estate, and to issue an eviction notice (enclosed) to be effective immediately, and to have a period of notice of 8 weeks from this date.'

Donnie's head was starting to ache badly.

'Hang on, hang on - I'm going to get a coffee and I'll call you back.'

'Cheers man - we'd be grateful for your help.' He hung up before Donnie could say 'well what's changed since the last time I helped you out?'.

Donnie was on his second cup when he phoned Jake back. He was out of milk but the coffee didn't need milk to do its magic trick of reminding him that he was awake.

'So when was the last time anyone had contact with Mrs, er, Cecilia?' He had the A5 pad open at a clean page and wrote 'Cecilia Thompson - Dead?' on the top line. This was an important part of his way of feeling business-like. It also gave him something to do while Jake hummed and hah'd. Under prompting from Donnie Jake worked his way forward from the start of the commune:

'It was late 1991 when we moved out here and started making it habitable. Cecilia was with us then and through that winter - so that's 1992 - and it was in January or February that she, Sushant and Amaka went off to India.'

'And you never saw her again.'

'We didn't see her, but she did write a few letters.'

'Have you still got them?'

'Nah - we received about four of them - so probably last one was 1993 - something like that.'

'Are you sure you haven't got them - might be important.' Donnie had no idea if it was, but it sounded good. 'Can you remember what they were about?' It suddenly occurred to him that she might have mentioned her intentions about the farm.

'Mostly about religion - like was Buddhism valid and whether grace had to be worked for or whether it could be a gift from God - you know, that sort of thing.' Donnie was feeling thankful he had chosen atheism.

'Nothing about the farm.'

'Not so's I remember, man.'

'Well, try and find them anyway. Do you want me to come up to the farm, so we can talk things over?'

'Yeah, nice one.' Donnie was surprised to find himself relieved. A week ago he had thought he might have seen the last of the farm, but now a strange exhilaration filled him. Was it Danu? He didn't think so, but she was a definite bonus.

'I'll drive over after breakfast, then.'

'Cool - see you later.' The receiver clicked as Donnie was trying to remember how long it had been since anyone said 'cool' to him - other than the odd members of the I.T. Dept who seemed stuck in the 1980s - about when the bank's mainframe computer had been cutting edge.

Danu met him at the gate, with the three dogs milling around her. She kissed him with enthusiasm.

'Come to save us again, Donnie?' He wondered if this was sarcasm, but he found it so hard to tell with her Chelsea accent. Part of the secret of the officer class, he assumed. The old Etonians who ran the bank always seemed to him to be poking fun at their plebeian underlings. Should he feel embarrassed at her faith in him, or annoyed at her teasing him, when he had given up his weekend. In truth, he had no-one to share the time off with, and he was pleased to be there - and there was always the possibility of sex.

After parking his car and stepping out into the dog pack, Donnie linked arms with Danu. She seemed a little surprised but pulled his arm close against her breast, and they walked slowly to the farmhouse.

Sunny ran out to them, squeezing between them. Taking Donnie's left hand and Danu's right, she led them into the parlour, where Jake and Bryony sat, chatting about a comet that was due the following weekend.

'I got some binoculars from Tony - it's gonna be great.' Sunny told Donnie, pulling him toward the others.

'Comets are portents of cosmic intent - all the ancients say that,' Bryony said to Sunny in a playful tone.

'What's a portent?'

'A sign that says times will be benign.'

'That's silly - it's just a ball of ice and dirt.'

They teased each other for a minute or two while 'coffee' was made and a few letters in blue airmail envelopes were produced by Jake.

'So she hasn't dated it.' Donnie held three sheets of thin paper covered with Cecilia's spidery handwriting.

'No - but the envelope has the postmark. Jake squinted at it. 'August 1994 - that's the last one.'

'A bit less than thirteen years. Do you think she's still in the same place?'

'Bryony wrote to her about four times after that - no reply. Her last letter was just after Sunny was born.'

Bryony spoke up, while tickling Sunny.

'I sent her a picture of a ticklish girl. It got returned with a 'not known in this town' sticker. I wrote to them to ask if they had an address, but they say 'no way'. The place is a hotel, now.'

'So, short of going to India, there's not much chance of tracing her. What about relatives?'

'Well - Angel says there's this cousin. Not too sure about anyone else.' Jake was floundering a little. Not for the first time, Donnie wondered how much of this was fact and how much just panic and supposition.

'Maybe I should talk to Angel about it.'

'Good idea - why don't I take you over - I meant to dig the last of the potatoes - so you two can talk while I get on with that.' Donnie got the impression that it was now his problem, and Jake was back to playing Farmer Giles.

Donnie sat in the small Earthship with Angel and the two boys. They were playing something on handheld consoles, linked by a spidery piece of black wire. At intervals he could hear the tinny sound of an explosion, usually accompanied by one of the boys kicking the other or digging him in the ribs.

Angel was more sombrely dressed this time. It was colder today than the Easter weekend, and she wore a dark blue jumper and jeans, with a pair of mule slippers. Both the jumper and jeans were tight though, and he relished the curves of her body. There was definitely something in the water here that seemed to accentuate his sex drive. Even Bryony seemed to have her attractions, though he had never been greatly appreciative of her bony body and drawn face.

He had visited Angel's kitchen to talk about Mrs Thompson's will - if there was one - but as soon as he had been supplied with tea and a custard cream, Angel pre-empted his enquiry.

'They're up to something - the three of them.'

'What? Which three.' Donnie was lost already. She sighed and continued.

'Rutter - you know, the solicitor - and Jack and Mr Tayle.'

'How do you know?'

'Julie said - she'd been out getting tea bags or something. When she got back, they were all in Mr Rutter's office and she went in to offer them a drink - like you do - and they were all looking at some piece of paper on his desk.'

'That doesn't mean that...'

'As soon as she came in, Mr Rutter pulled it off the table and stuck it in a drawer and the other two sat down and started trying to look all innocent - she said it was like her brother used to be with porn mags.' Angel laughed and then realised her boys were laughing too, and stopped quickly with pursed lips.

'You two - why don't you go out and play with the dogs - they like a bit of company.'

'But Mum...' the older one started, but Angel stood up and ushered them out, taking the consoles off them and storing them in a cupboard.

'Get some fresh air.'

As soon as they were outside, she turned back to Donnie, who got in quickly.

'Maybe it was porn?'

'No - not Mr Rutter. He's not the type. Though Jack, now - the things I've found on his laptop.... anyway, she did them tea and Mr Rutter closed the door. She could hear them talking, but not the actual words.'

'And?'

'Well, when they'd gone and Mr Rutter went out for a sandwich - he brings them from home, but sits out at the little park if the weather is ok - when he'd gone, she had a crafty look around his office - nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'But he'd locked his top drawer - he never does that.'

'So what do you think it was?'

'I don't know, but it must mean something, mustn't it?'

Donnie thought for a moment. It could have been anything. But maybe it was important.

'Do you think it might have been Mrs Thompson's will?' Donnie asked, as Angel was tidying away the washed breakfast plates and cutlery. She finished the job before turning around.

'Could have been, I suppose.'

'Could have been what?' Angel's father Tony appeared at the kitchen door. He held a pair of dead rabbits by the back legs. In Donnie's eyes they seemed huge - great long, thin bodies and large staring black eyes, their flanks flecked with blood.

Angel took the rabbits from him and laid them on the work surface next to the sink.

'Cecilia's will - you know, for the land. Who shot these?' She turned to Donnie. 'He hasn't got a gun - no licence.'

Tony sniffed theatrically. 'I got 'em from young Dave Sanders - helped him out with the tractor.'

'I'll stew one for tonight - do you want to come over, Donnie?' He was tempted but the nearest rabbit stared him unblinkingly in the eye, and he was not sure Danu would approve.

'No thanks - Danu is cooking something, I think.'

'Couldn't live on that stuff,' Tony said, shaking his head. Donnie was not sure he could, but he could stand it for the weekend. He stood and finished his tea, handing the cup to Angel.

'Thanks, Angel. I'll pop back if I think of anything else.' He went to leave and Tony joined him.

'I'll walk over to the farmhouse with you - I'm off to the pub.' Donnie suppressed the urge to join him.

As they walked past the large Earthship, Tony slowed and turned to him.

'If you want to get a look around the solicitor's place, I can fix it for you.'

'How?'

'The back of that shop - it's got an extension. Flat roof - only six foot or so - and Rutter's got a nice window out on to it - piece of piss to get that out.'

'You mean - break-in?'

'Wouldn't take nothing - not really a break-in, just a kind of - reconnaissance - you know, just a look round - no-one would know.'

'No - I couldn't' Donnie was horrified. The idea of him perched up on a roof, breaking and entering. He felt guilty if he over-stayed at a parking meter.

'Only, I thought you was keen to help us stay here.' Tony looked up at him, his head to one side and his dark eyes holding Donnie's is what he took to be a contemptuous gaze.

'I find her hard going.' Danu had mentioned Bryony in passing, and caught Donnie in a reflective mood.

'Who?'

'Bryony - I suppose it's the way she talks.'

'She's nervous, that's all - you unnerve her with your big city ways and playboy attitude.' She was attempting to tickle him - which she always did when he was trying to be serious. He caught her arms and held them to her side as he kissed her. The kiss stopped her from wriggling but she was stronger than him and they both knew it. He let her hands loose as he kissed her collar-bone, and took her breasts in his hands. He was not put off, though getting seriously distracted.

'She implied that she and Jake don't make love anymore.'

'Hmmm.' He took that for a yes, as he started investigating her belly-button with his tongue.

Conversation stopped for a while until they were lying side by side and he was panting as he removed his condom and wrapped it in a tissue.

Some time later he surfaced and watched the dim Sunday morning sunlight stir the dust in the air, and Danu stretched her arms and legs, ready to get up.

As they were dressing, he turned back to their conversation.

'What's that about then?- Jake and Bryony, I mean.'

She paused in dressing - her pink cotton trousers were on, but she held a denim shirt in her hands between her pendulous breasts, and sat on the bed. Donnie sat beside her, in his jeans and unbuttoned floral shirt.

'It's something I'm a bit ashamed of - but I know you should face these things, not avoid them.'

He nodded, though in his experience it was better to bury anything you were ashamed of, as thoroughly as possible.

'When Bryony was pregnant, Jake didn't want to make love with her - you know it was just that he didn't want to harm Sunny. Stupid, I know - but you men are like that.'

'I used to rub a little oil into her bump and on her bum, when she started showing.'

'For the stretch marks?'

'Yeah, sort of - really we just both enjoyed it. But, anyway, it started getting a bit more intense than that - I told you, most people aren't gay or straight, they're somewhere in between, and there's no law against friends just - well, helping each other out.'

'But Jake started showing an interest in me - and I just have no will power - I screwed him a couple of times.'

'So you were having both of them.'

'Yeah - there's no law.'

'But?'

'We try not to be jealous but we're human and humans try to own other human's don't they?' She gave him a challenging look. As far as he knew, he was the only man in her life at the moment. What would he feel if there was someone else - or more than one?'

'Yeah, I guess we're all jealous at some time.'

'All the time,' she said with finality.

'Anyway, it caused a rift between them and they had a blazing row a couple of days before Sunny was born - he wouldn't sleep in the same bed as Bryony, and they weren't speaking when she went into labour.'

'Of course, he changed as soon as that happened, but it cast a cloud over what should have been a happy time.'

'After Sunny was born they were fine, but Bryony was pretty sore - you know stitches and that - but a month or two later, she was ready to go back to things - but he wasn't'.

'Jake's 'solution' was to declare himself celibate. He said he was 'beyond sex' - but he's not. He's not ready for that. And it's selfish - Sunny could have had sisters and brothers.'

'Why does he want to be beyond sex?'

'To make himself more spiritual - but I think he's fooling himself.'

## **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

### **_A criminal intent_**

###

Tony pulled out two pairs of ear defenders from the rucksack and thrust one at Donnie. He looked amused and wiggled them until Donnie grabbed them. Tony put his round his neck, and turned to the window as he mumbled something to himself.

They were standing on the flat roof of the extension at the back of Rutter and Son. Tony had been a window fitter – amongst the other fifty jobs that he'd done over his life – and still had some of the tools.

Billy and Stephen were keeping guard on the alleyway below. Once Donnie had given in to Tony's emotional blackmail, Tony had roped in Billy and Stephen to their raiding party.

Tony was between Donnie and the street light, so Donnie did not have a good view of what he was doing, but it did seem to involve a lot of grunting and a quick tirade of swearing as one of the tyre-iron-like tools slipped and caught him on the chin. He turned to Donnie and pointed at his face.

'Any blood?'

'No – it won't spoil your good looks.'

'Fuck off – the bastards have got my DNA and I'm not doing time for you or that crowd of fuckers.'

'Sorry Tony' Donnie said as he turned around. As soon as he said it, Tony whipped back to face him.

'Will you fuck off? – Call me that once more and you can do the job yourself.' Donnie had forgotten his coaching - he was supposed to call him John, and Tony was to call him Mike.

Mumbling to himself, Tony carried on levering at the window. Donnie stood behind him, his stomach rumbling with anxiety. Second thoughts had kicked in almost immediately. He was a bank manager, for God's sake. What was he doing ruining a Sunday night by aiding and abetting a break-in to a respectable solicitor? If only he had had the courage to refuse. There must be another way - they didn't even know if there was a will - he could be risking everything for the sake of some down-and-out ex-con's opinion of him.

While Donnie was listening to the bubbling of his stomach, Tony was removing a long snake of black rubber. Once the first one was out, the others came pretty quickly and Donnie thought it was more or less done, but it was another five or six minutes before Tony had finished removing plastic, rubber and steel, and could gently ease the double-glazed unit out.

Tony gestured at Donnie with his head to take one end of the window. They carried it away from the heap of debris and laid it gently on the extension roof.

Tony laid a finger to his lips, pulled his ear defenders on, and pulled up his hood over them. Donnie followed suit, feeling a fool in the hoodie he had borrowed from Danu. It was grey with a picture of a small pink pig eating a marijuana plant and the words 'A Sole Piglet' underneath. When he had asked her what it meant, she just said 'Work it out, Mr Logic - you're supposed to be good at crosswords.'

With the defenders and the hood, Donnie felt completely isolated from the world – he could only see Tony and the empty window, and could only just make out the sound of a passing car. He kept feeling the need to look behind him to see if the police had arrived.

If Tony had any fear, he didn't show it. He stood to one side and gestured at the window. Donnie took a deep breath and climbed into the corridor beyond. As soon as he got his knee over the sill, the alarm went off. With the ear defenders it sounded as if it was a couple of blocks away.

Tony stayed on the roof while Donnie walked down the corridor and turned on the light. Tony had said that they would have half an hour or more before the police responded to any alarms, and Donnie guessed he was right.

'Too busy harassing working men trying to make a living.' Tony had said. Donnie opened Rutter's office and scanned the filing cabinets in the outer office. It took him nearly two minutes to find the file marked 'Townend Farm', and more long, long minutes to photocopy and replace it.

He got out to find Tony and Stephen with the window unit ready to be replaced. Tony gestured for Donnie to drop down into the alleyway and he gingerly lowered himself over the edge, nearly having a heart-attack when Billy seized him around the waist, lowering him to the ground.

It seemed to take an hour, but was probably only five minutes, before the other two dropped from the roof - they needed no assistance from Billy.

Tony took Donnie's ear defenders and gloves and packed them in the rucksack he carried. Donnie was the only one of the three who was without a bag, he noted. He had had to stuff the photocopies into the front of the hoody. Mentally, he acknowledged the usefulness of experience.

Billy and Stephen left the alley first, turning right. Donnie and Tony went next - to the left and towards The Swan.  They were standing at the bar when they heard the siren and saw the blue lights passing the pub windows.

Tony managed two pints of cider to Donnie's half of beer. He would have liked a pint, but he had to drive back to London, and was already chafing at the time they were wasting, but Tony insisted that they shouldn't be on the streets while the police were on the alert.

Eventually they left and walked back to the farm in the dim light of a half-moon.

Donnie sat across the table from Jake, Bryony and Danu. His bottom lip protruded slightly in an expression of almost childish petulance. Jake shook his head slowly.

'I don't know what you were thinking of. You're a bank manager, man - a pillar of society and all that shit. At least you could have discussed it with me or Danu or someone sensible.'

'But Tony...' Donnie started on a justification, but Jake cut in immediately.

'Tony is what he is - a chancer. His morals are not my concern. He won't change. That's what Angel was trying to tell you. She doesn't want that for her kids. Tony's not the wisest of men, but I expected better of you, Donnie.'

Donnie was almost ready to lose his temper. The other week he had brought them good news and been greeted by long faces. This week he had gone further - risked being arrested, risked his job and his prospects to get whatever secrets the solicitor was keeping, and here he was - being lectured to as if he was a five-year-old.

'Look, it's done now - we'll just have to hope that no-one notices the break-in.' Danu weighed in on Donnie's behalf. He felt worse about her - he had told her he was going out to the pub with Tony - he hadn't mentioned the solicitors - was that lying?

On the table between them was a jumble of photo-copied sheets. Mainly accounts for the farm, detailing the arrears, a copy of the tenancy agreement, and a copy of the petition to the court to have Mrs Thompson declared dead.

The petition was the only new piece of information. It was signed by Grayson Tayle, described as 'cousin and only surviving relative.' A short document, it gave the last contact for Mrs Thompson as being a letter to the solicitor in 1992. Although Bryony could produce a later date, if the court would allow the postmark of her letter as proof, the petition simply stated that 1992 was ' more than seven years' and the postmark of 1994 would just make it twelve years, rather than fourteen - still more than seven.

So, Donnie thought, a wasted effort and he'd managed to piss them off again.

'It's getting late - I'd better get back.' He looked at his watch, for effect - he knew it was about ten thirty - and rose from the table. Jake rose with him.

'Donnie - I know you're doing your best - sorry man, but it's good to share - right?' He clapped him on the shoulder, and Danu rose and gave him a kiss - only Bryony remained seated.

He made his way outside, accompanied by Jake and Danu. His bag was already packed and all he needed to do was sling it in the car and drive back to London. He was looking forward to his own relatively clean bed.

Jake had an arm around him as they headed for the car, just visible in the light of the half-moon. As they reached it, they saw the wavering light of a torch illuminating the gate up ahead - throwing shadows on the wall of the corrugated iron shack that housed the tractors.

Donnie's heart raced - no-one came here at this time of night - maybe it was the police. He looked around - perhaps if he was quick he could get the car down the tractor lane and out from the other end of the farm. It would mean going via Colchester, but that was preferable to a night of interrogation. But then, he couldn't leave Jake and Danu to face them in his place. He waited.

The gate creaked open and he heard Billy's voice.

'Watch where you're pointing that, you twat. Keep it on the ground and somewhere near my fucking feet would be good.'

Billy marched through the gate, followed by Stephen, who held a long rubber torch, shedding a weak pool of yellow light.

'Alright lads - where've you been till now?' Jake said.

'None of your fucking business,' Billy said as Stephen said 'The Rose and Crown' simultaneously. He held his head down, looking at Billy's feet which were still illuminated by the torch.

'Let's have a quick talk inside,' Jake said, in a conciliatory voice.

'Let's have a fucking talk out here,' Billy said, squaring his shoulders and standing as tall as he could, facing Jake's six foot plus frame. Billy was obviously not in the mood for conciliation.

Donnie remembered that Jake had said Billy 'had problems with authority figures - but who doesn't, man?'. Jake's tone was soft and inclusive.

'Sure -Donnie says you - erm - helped out at the solicitors.'

'And?'

'You didn't take anything, right? You left everything as is?'

'Course'

'Stephen?' Jake turned to the round-shouldered figure who shrugged.

'Sure - we just, you know, just...'

'What?' Jake raised his voice a little, and Danu put a hand on Stephen's arm.

'They won't miss them.'

'Shut up, you twat.' Billy turned to his companion, balling a fist, but not raising his arm to him.

Jake held out his hand and Stephen gave him the rucksack. He opened it and pulled out a laptop and power supply.

'I didn't know they were going to...' Donnie started speaking as Billy glared at him.

'No - you don't think like Tony. Honour among thieves?' Jake laughed, though he didn't sound amused.

'What does it fucking matter if one solicitor has one less fucking computer? Who gives a fuck?' Billy had both fists balled. Jake sighed.

'The solicitor isn't an idiot - they know that the Foundation are trying to block them. He'll tell the police, and the police will raid the farm and if they find anything illegal....'

Jake turned to Stephen again.

'Anything else?'

'Just the petty cash tin and some pencils.' He fished some unsharpened pencils out of his pocket.

'Pencils?'

'I like stationery.' Stephen addressed the ground. Donnie surpassed a laugh. Stephen looked like a contrite eleven year old.

'Oh Stephen' Danu went to him and put her arms around him. Stephen made no response, still looking like a guilty schoolboy. The rain was just beginning, and she used it as an excuse to drop her arms and pull up the hood of her restored hoodie.

'What about the cash?' Jake said to both of the lads.

'Gone - most of it - couple of pints, chips - there was fuck all in there.' Billy was pointing his chin at Jake in a gesture of defiance.

'If you want that back, you'll have to drain the fucking toilet at The Rose and Crown.'

'Where's the tin.'

'In a fucking bin at the back of Tesco's - and yes we was wearing gloves.'

'Ok. Give Donnie the laptop and the pencils. Donnie - you head off back to London. If you two want to volunteer to help hiding the stash, I'd be very grateful to you both.'

Donnie was unsure if this was sarcasm or not. He didn't care. He just wanted to be home, in bed, asleep. He kissed Danu, pulling the two halves of her hoodie closer to her body. She nuzzled his ear and whispered 'Legalise Pot, Mr Logic - that's what A Sole Piglet was trying to tell you.'

## **CHAPTER TWELVE**

### **_Raid_**

###

'Are you the leader?' The policeman eyed Jake with some distaste. He held up his ID in his left hand, like some kind of religious talisman. Jake was about to issue his customary homily on the irrelevance of titles and positions in a truly free society, but he caught the look of concern on Danu's face and simply nodded.

'There was a break-in at Rutter's the solicitors over the weekend.'

'I'm sorry to hear it, officer.' Jake held his face impassive, unlike the policeman who's mouth curved downward in a grimace of hatred.

'We know they weren't your favourite people - we want to search the premises here - money and goods were stolen. I suppose you've shifted them, but we have to go through the motions.'

'Have you got a search warrant?' In truth, Jake didn't know exactly what a search warrant was, but it seemed worth asking.

'No sir - we were hoping for co-operation. We can, of course, obtain a warrant - but then we will take the whole farm apart. A little mutual understanding will make our job easier and you life less - ' he paused, looking around at Danu and Bryony ' - stressful.'

'If you can avoid making too much of a mess - please go ahead.' Jake made a sweeping, inviting motion with his arm and the policeman snapped his un-read ID closed and turned to the three uniformed officers behind him - ushering them outside to work out a search plan for the rabbit-warren of buildings.

Jake was nervous but they had planned for this. They had found an old steel trunk in the barn. The markings indicated it was once an ammunition box or such-like, but all it contained were some rusty chisels and dust.

They put everything they could find, including cigarette papers, butts and a couple of used water pipes in the box. Then Jake dropped it into a pre-prepared hole in the newly ploughed field, and re-ploughed over the top of it. It was the best they could manage. Now all they could do was sweat while the police combed the ramshackle buildings, sheds and barn.

Grayson stared at the other two with a patrician's contempt. He was not worried but angry with himself for embroiling himself in dealings with such two such pathetic specimens.

He reluctantly allowed that Rutter was simply an old fool. Grayson had known the solicitor all his life. He deserved some respect for his grey hairs, but Webster? Nothing but a jumped-up navvy fired by avarice and blinkered by stupidity. They seemed to be looking to him for leadership.

'What do the police say about it, Anthony? The actual words please, not conjecture.' He frowned at the solicitor who seemed to him to look more like an old woman every day.

'They said that it must have been an inside job - I had trouble convincing them that it wasn't an insurance scam.'

'Just their words, please Anthony.' The solicitor's expression showed how cutting he found the implication that he was emotionally disturbed, and Grayson rather enjoyed that.

'They said that as there was no obvious break-in, either we had left the door unlocked, or the thief had a key.'

'So who has got a key?' Webster butted in. The builder was still obviously puzzled by why they should be involved at all and his face bore a sceptical expression.

'Just me, Julie, the cleaners - and the police pointed out that the secretaries I have had over the years all had a key.'

'So what, exactly, is on the laptop?' Grayson cut in before he started listing all the previous secretaries.

'When I took a copy of our agreement, I put the scan on the laptop - just in case.' Grayson was getting bored with this. At the worst, it could pose some threat to his political ambitions, but even then there was plenty of time for this to be forgotten. He decided to wrap it up.

'The laptop is password protected, I take it?' Rutter nodded.

'Though not encrypted?'

'I don't know how to do that,' Rutter said and Grayson snorted - even though he knew nothing about it, either.

'But the scan has got its own password - I know how to do that.'

'Well then, we've got nothing to fear,' Grayson said with an air of finality.

'I was thinking.' Webster started, holding up his customary 'do not interrupt' palm to them both.

'I found out that one of my assistants lives on the farm.' He held his hand steady, as Grayson hissed though his teeth.

'I'm sure there is no problem, but I found out that she goes out for lunch with your secretary Julie every week - and my Pat - they're sisters, you know.'

'And?' Grayson said.

'I dunno - I'm just putting it on the table.' The builder looked pained at Grayson's tone.

'Sack her then - you should have done that anyway, before all of this blew up.'

'I didn't know until Pat mentioned it last week.'

'I think the police will be paying them a visit today.' The solicitor added.

'Oh yes, the police. So you set them on the farm people, Anthony?'

'I didn't. I really didn't - I just said that they were the only people who might have a reason for it'.

'Why did you say that? Guilty conscience? If you are going to break any of the moral constraints of your profession, Anthony, it is better to do it with relish, rather than trepidation.' He shook his head.

'In my opinion this is nothing to do with the witless, unemployable flotsam who inhabit the farm - someone picked the lock, stole what they could before the police responded to the alarm and then buggered off - we have nothing to fear unless we draw attention to ourselves.' He barked out the words as he rose from his seat.

'So let us forget about the whole incident, and try to stay calm.' Grayson strode to the door.

'But don't forget to sack that woman.'

Jake was nervous. He was sure they had accounted for everything. They had washed everything that might have been used as an ashtray. All the actual weed had been gathered together and bundled into the old ammo box and buried.

That really was the best they could do. They had to trust to Kali Yuga to bring them luck. He had put a handful of corncockle and poppy flowers around the idol and made a small prayer as he bowed - the best he could do in the circumstances.

The morning passed with the policemen turning over the farm buildings. They didn't leave everything as they found it, but he was impressed that they didn't try to deliberately break things or cause too much chaos.

Some of their consideration might have been due to Danu accompanying them and talking loudly in her cut-glass accent. They didn't know who her father and mother were, and an intervention with the chief constable might have been an unwelcome side-effect of any rough treatment.

They had ejected Billy and Stephen from the labourers' cottage while they turned it over, but Frankie refused to leave, screeching incomprehensible curses at them. In the end they left her bedroom untouched - though they did threaten to section her if she offered them any physical violence.

By the time the sun was dipping towards the horizon, the knot in Jake's stomach was starting to undo itself. He was counting the minutes until he could unearth the stash and roll one up.

Then he heard a commotion from the other side of the farmyard. Billy's voice was raised in confrontation with the youngest policeman.

'I had a uniform, once - didn't make me a fucking superman, you wanker. You're just a schoolyard bully in blue fucking trousers. I was a soldier, you twat - twice the man you'll ever be, so get your fucking hands off me.'

Jake ran around the corner to see two of the policemen cornering Billy in the farmyard. One had his hand on Billy's arm. Jake had no doubt that Billy could break it if he lost his temper. Stephen stood to one side, looking at the feet of the two policemen.

'Officer, please. Can I help?' They turned to Jake, and Billy knocked the policeman's hand off his arm. The policeman turned back, hand outstretched, but Jake shouted again.

'Officer - what's the problem here.?

'Perhaps you can tell our overexcited resident that we wish to check the cottage again.'

Jake willed Billy to look at him, but he continued to stare at the policeman.

'Perhaps, officer, you could indicate what the problem is?'

'Well sir - I wouldn't normally, but in these circumstances... we found a crowbar behind the back wall - all very innocent, I'm sure, but we would just like to check that the floorboards have not been recently raised.'

'Seems very reasonable to me, officer. Don't you think so, Billy?'

Billy said nothing, and the two police constables entered the building and could be heard from outside, moving furniture and looking under rugs. Stephen stood to the side, looking vaguely at the windows until the police re-emerged after twenty minutes or so. One of the constables addressed Jake.

'That seems all in order - thank you for your co-operation.'

The other looked at Billy with an expression somewhere between a challenge and a sneer. Jake had spent the twenty minutes talking to Billy and trying to appeal to the soldier's logic of only beginning battles that you stand a chance of winning. Billy behaved admirably, returning the constable's stare with a non-committal expression. Stephen continued to stare at the ground. The constable turned towards him.

'You - look at me when I'm talking to you.' Stephen raised his head, but looked somewhere behind the constable. The policeman grabbed Stephen's arms and turned him physically around. Stephen offered no resistance, but Billy sprang forward.

Jake growled 'Billy' and Billy stopped in his tracks, kicking the ground.

'Would you have any objection, sir, to us searching your person?' The constable's mouth was inches away from Stephen's face, and Stephen shook his head, hitting the constable's face with strands of his thin hair. The constable spat on the ground and pushed Stephen against the farmyard wall, placing his palms on the wall above his head.

The other policeman looked embarrassed, but did nothing to intervene.

After patting Stephen down, the officer told him to take off his army coat, and proceeded to turn out the contents of the pockets onto the ground.

Jake felt this was getting out of hand.

'Look - Stephen has never done anything wrong - he wouldn't and couldn't - if you carry on with this, I will make a protest.'

The officer threw a handkerchief, a small knife and some small coins on the yard floor before replying.

'I note your objection, and will give it full consideration - sir.'

He pulled out the contents of the other pocket which seemed to contain mostly fluff and a small packet wrapped in silver foil and encased in blue fluff.

Blowing away the fluff, he smelt the tiny silver-wrapped packet and a grin of triumph lit up his face.

'Are you ok Donnie - you seemed a bit down last Sunday - sorry if I was a bit, you know, rough. I know you meant well, man.' For Jake this was positively grovelling. Donnie realised that the phone call meant another request - another invitation to be exploited. He straightened his back and hardened his features, hoping his stance would be mirrored in his tone.

'No problem'

'Yeah - we put the stash in an old army grenade box and buried it in one of the fields - the advantages of living on a farm.'

'So no charges?'

'Well, that's the thing. Tony had some shotgun cartridges - God knows why, he hasn't had a shotgun for at least five years. They threatened to do him for that. I don't think they'll bother, but it will only be a small fine if they do.'

'And Stephen had two grams of resin. Of course, he's scared shitless - he's on a suspended sentence for possession, and he's worried they will invoke the sentence - six months inside. He doesn't even smoke anymore - it must be at least a year old.'

'But I really don't think they'll bother with him - they didn't find the laptop, so they can't connect us to the break-in.'

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before Jake spoke again.

'So, I guess we're back to square one?'

'Well you've got more than a month - It will give you time to raise some money and get a lawyer,' Donnie said, with an air of finality.

'Yeah, I guess. You didn't find anything useful on that laptop, then?'

'Haven't looked,' Donnie said 'I don't know the password.'

'And nothing on the paper stuff.'

'I haven't been through it in detail - I've been busy at work.'

'Ok sure - thanks for what you've done though man - all the best.' Jake hung up before Donnie could reply. Donnie put the phone down and turned the TV sound back up.

## **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

### **_Gumshoe_**

###

The weekend was passing extremely slowly. He woke early, after his sober Friday night and finished the housework by ten. He had done the shopping on Friday as well, so the weekend stretched out in front of him with only the TV for company.

He had hidden the photocopies from the solicitors and the laptop behind the almost-empty bookcase. Feeling rather ridiculous he pulled the bookcase out tutting at the small shower of dust this provoked.

He spread the photocopies out again, studying them more closely than he had on the farm. The accounts were perfunctory, the arrears simply growing at compound interest, year on year. The tenancy agreement was simply a copy of the one he had already seen - but there were a couple of addresses handwritten in the margin. They were heavily faded, but he copied them into his notebook. Both London addresses, one was headed 'Cecilia, old', the other one 'Mrs T'.

Maybe he could take a walk down and have a look - at least it would get him out of the flat for an hour or two.

Alighting at Sloane Square, he checked the roads against his A to Z and walked off towards the river. He did not expect to find anything out. He assumed that the 'Mrs T' entry was the last known address. He could have checked with Jake, but he didn't feel like phoning the Foundation. He did not want any expectations hung around his neck. He told himself that he was merely doing this to satisfy his own curiosity.

After fifteen minutes of walking, and two wrong turns, he stood in front of a red and yellow striped sandstone building with three entrances. He strode to the nearest entrance and found the bell-pushes and post-boxes for six flats - numbered thirteen to eighteen. His address was number four, so he walked further down to the first entrance and found the flat. The bell-push simply said 'McGarigle' and he wrote this solemnly into his notebook, before crossing the road and looking up at the block from across the street.

You would certainly need a fair amount of money to stay here, even renting. He wondered what it was like back in the early nineties - not much cheaper, surely?

Still, it was background information. He took out his phone and photographed the building, feeling like a proper private investigator.

'The guy who stands to inherit - that's a Mr Tayle, isn't it?' Donnie was on the phone to Jake.

'Yeah that's him, Grayson Tayle - the least significant of the trio of twats.'

'Remember your karma.' Donnie couldn't help the sly dig.

'Remember to fuck off,' Jake said 'Why - what have you come up with?'

'The tenancy agreement had an address for a swanky place in Chelsea - someone called 'Mrs T' - that could be Mrs Tayle?'

'I guess so - maybe his mum or grannie - or Cecilia's, I suppose - I don't know her maiden name.'

'Well, if it was Mrs Thompson, she must have had quite a bit of money at some point.'

Donnie read him the other address - that was definitely Cecilia's - but he didn't know about that either. That was the end of this week's excitement, then. He chatted for a minute or so, Jake complaining that the police had trampled a patch of magic mushrooms, but at least they hadn't charged them with anything yet - though Stephen was anxious about being charged with possession.

When Donnie hung up, the flat seemed empty again. He was getting too dependent on the people at the Foundation. He fired up the laptop and set about the final revision of his application for the German position. It was time to act.

Donnie had the application almost complete but he was stuck on the aspiration question - 'Where do you see yourself in five years?' - He guessed that 'Cologne' would not be a good answer.

The phone rang again and he jumped up and grabbed it, grateful for the distraction.

'Donnie' It was Danu.

'Hi Danu - how are you?'

'Oh I'm fine - I was just wondering if you were coming up this weekend.'

'Well - it wasn't in my plans, but...' he let the sentence hang.

'What with all the fuss last week, we didn't get a chance to...' now she let the sentence hang.

'It's just that we have a little ceremony at the Summer Solstice.' He vaguely knew what that was, and he knew it was in late June, but he couldn't remember the significance.

'Erm - yes - when is that?'

'A week on Wednesday - the twenty-first - it's the longest day of the year. The day we thank God for the bounty the light has brought. The indians call it Purnima, the pagans Litha, but all cultures that are in touch with the Earth know its significance. The thing is, there's a full moon tomorrow and from then until the solstice, I am going to be celibate.'

'Yes - I see what you mean.' He checked the time.

'I might pop up then - be good to make a new plan with everyone tomorrow.'

'Of course - see you soon then.'

It was after ten when Danu and Donnie emerged to the weak Sunday sunshine. Donnie had brought the photocopies and stolen laptop back to the farm - having dumped the pencils in the office stationery cupboard. Having stolen goods in his flat was a constant source of anxiety - he would let the others decide whether to destroy them or dump them, but he didn't want them on his hands. He had not yet even turned the laptop on.

'Maybe we should just have a look, first.' Danu unplugged an ancient radio from one of the only two antiquated sockets in the kitchen and plugged the laptop in.

Donnie switched it on and waited while it booted up and displayed a picture of a sixty-something woman and a fortyish woman in expensive-looking clothes standing by a younger girl in riding britches and hat, holding the reins of a pony. Donnie assumed that this was three generations of Rutters and the Rutter pony - all very Country Living.

The username was already filled with ARutter, but the password was insolently blank.

'What do you reckon, Danu?' She shrugged.

'Tosser?'

'You know there are kids on the web who can crack this in seconds.' Donnie said, typing 'Tosser' in the password box and having it rejected.

'Why don't you ask Sunny, then?' Danu put her hands on her hips, bored with unresponsive machines.

'Yeah - nine year old criminal mastermind.'

'Eight.'

'She told me she was nine.' Donnie said, typing 'Mastermind' into the password - to no avail.

'She's got an elliptical relationship with the truth. She's a Gemini. One twin tells the truth as she sees it, but the other one might see it a different way.'

'Right - one twin a year older than the other?' Donnie tried Gemini as well - no dice.

'What do we know about Mr Rutter - what's his wife's name? - or his daughter's?'

'God knows - Lady Penelope?'

'Who's Lady Penel - Penel....' Sunny had wandered in behind them and was struggling with the puppet's name.'

'Pen - Ell - Oh - Pee - it's a woman's name. A snooty woman with a pink Rolls Royce.'

'Oh' she thought about it for a moment. Donnie guessed she didn't know what a Rolls was. Then she saw the computer.

'Laptop - you've got your laptop, Uncle Donnie.'

'I'm not your uncle, Sunny.'

'No but I told them in school about the Science Museum and I said you was so they wouldn't think you're a pervert.'

Donnie turned to Danu, but found she had turned away from him, her chest heaving and hands over her mouth.

'Can I play on it? Has it got games?'

'I don't know the password.'

'I've got a stick!' Of course - she'd used it on Donnie's machine in London. He had no idea how these things worked, but Sunny did, and that was all that mattered. She ran out of the door, while Danu sobbed out a few remaining laughs.

'You're a pervert, all right.' She put her hand between his legs and jiggled the previously sleeping giant. At least he had remembered to bring the two packets of condoms with him yesterday - her little tin was full of them again - minus a couple.

She kissed him, sticking her garlicy tongue into his mouth. The giant woke up a little, as Sunny ran back in with a memory stick. Danu and Donnie separated and Donnie took a couple of deep breaths while Sunny mounted a stool to sit facing the laptop.

'You plug it in here' she said. 'Then switch on, holding the spacer down' She held the space-bar down with a rather dirty looking finger. A white on black dialogue came up, but Donnie was too slow to read it as Sunny pressed some key combination.

'Then you boot from the stick' and the screen cleared for a few seconds before being covered with geekish gibberish that filled the screen then scrolled off.

'This takes ages and ages' she said as sentences about loaders and device drivers filled the screen for a second or two before being crowded out by media mounting, desktop loading, preference initialization and so on.

It stopped to think, and then the screen filled with an unfamiliar desktop.

'This is Linux,' said Sunny, with obvious pride.

'There's no games on it,' she said without rancour.

'Oh'

'But if you run this' she clicked an icon of a pair of binoculars, 'and put in this' she painstakingly typed out a file path with her little fingers then pressed Enter.

'You can see this' a block of undifferentiated letters filled the screen. 'And if you do that' she clicked an icon that looked a little like a dungeon key and a green box appeared around a meaningless set of letters, whereapon they changed to ''rettuRA123'.

'That's the password - what's it mean?' She looked up at Donnie wrinkling her nose.

'It's his username backwards with 123 on the end,' Donnie said - he wondered how long a roomful of monkeys, typing randomly, would have taken to find it. Rather less than it would have taken him, he suspected.

Another five minutes and they were examining Mr Rutter's correspondence and case notes.

Jake padded into the farmhouse parlour having left his muddy wellies in the porch. He stared expectantly at Donnie who was crouched over the laptop.

'Nothing'

'Nothing?'

'Nothing.'

Donnie had been at the laptop for two hours. God knows how many documents in legalese, how many spreadsheets of accounts he had read without anything untoward appearing.

Jake kicked one of his stockinged feet with the other.

'Yeah, well thanks for trying.'

'There are a couple of password protected spreadsheets, though.'

Jake looked down at Donnie with a grin.

'And?'

'And nothing - I couldn't break them - I'm a bank manager, not a hacker.'

'But...'

Sunny looked up from the laptop.

'No - don't know. We could guess. This ones called 'TB' - 'Three Bears'.' She typed it in and stuck out her tongue when it was rejected.

She had tried her 'magic stick' but even it seem powerless. It was hard to remember that she was a eight-year old girl. She knew a lot of tricks but she wasn't a professional programmer. Donnie wondered if he could trust anyone at the bank to tell him. Mind you the two IT lads in his office would just tell him to turn it off and turn it back on.

Sunny was getting bored.

'Can I watch the DVD?'

'What DVD?' Jake said, listlessly.

Sunny pointed at the side of the laptop.

'There's one in here - look, the little green light's on.'

There was a little LED on the DVD drive, flashing from time to time. Donnie had noticed it before, but not paid it any heed.

'Let's just look at it first,' Jake said, winking at Donnie. What DVD would an ageing solicitor watch in the office? Steam trains - or something steamier?

Jake took the laptop from Sunny and held it at his chest, scanning the screen and looking puzzled.

'How do you play them?'

'Just double-click it,' Donnie said.

'Double-click what?'

'Let me....' Donnie took it off him. There was nothing there. He had seen that before though. He just needed to eject and re-insert the disk to get the DVD icon. He pushed the eject button on the drive and, after a small hesitation, it opened. Inside was a circular piece of card. He pulled it out and read the list, written at different times with different pens, but in the same precise script.

'Teatime, Bathtime, Daytime, Lancaster... what on earth?'

'Passwords!' Sunny said 'S'obvious' and so it was.

TB opened to 'Teatime', BF to 'Bathtime, DKK to 'Daytime' and so on. They were charts of accounts - time for Donnie to get to work. They were all spreadsheets apart from one. This was a TIFF file - Donnie knew they were some kind of graphics or image file - he had gotten them from time to time in his work email, usually containing a grainy, out-of-focus image of a legal document.

It was titled 'Safety' and, after a couple of abortive attempts, it opened to one of the passwords on the card. It contained a photocopy of a manually typed document - with some mistakes corrected in biro, and bearing three signatures. It read....

_Agreement_

__

_The undersigned parties agree on the following course of action to procure and develop the land currently occupied by Townend Farm._

__

_Grayson Tayle and Jack Webster to agree to sell and buy, respectively, such land at the then current market price for development land, once planning permission for residential use is obtained._

__

_Anthony Rutter to be guaranteed the pursuance of all legal duties involved in the above sale and all subsequent sales from the land up to and including the sale of housing to third parties. _

__

_Jack Webster and Grayson Tayle to use their good offices to promote the granting of planning permission and to ease the commercial exploitation of the said land. _

__

_Solemnly sworn and signed: _

This was followed by the three signatures. Donnie called the others over and read it to them.

'We've got them, then?' Jake was obviously a little thrown by the language. 'It's a conspiracy, then, surely - Yeah?'

'Bastards.' Danu added.

Donnie looked perplexed.

'I don't know why they did this - they're not doing anything illegal. I think it's more like a binding agreement on Tayle to sell the land - after all once he gets it he's not under any obligation to anyone.'

'Maybe it's not illegal, but it's immoral and corrupt,' Danu said.

'Well, they are claiming that their eviction notice was issued in Cecilia's interests - and we could present this at court to say it's in theirs.' Donnie began, as Jake clapped him on the shoulders, he had to interrupt him before he got carried away.

'But...' Jake dropped his hands from Donnie's shoulders.

'That would mean admitting we've got the laptop.'

'Oh - yeah, I s'pose - So we can't use it?'

'Nothing to use. As far as I can see they aren't doing anything illegal. Look, give me an hour to have a look at the spreadsheets. Might be something there.' Donnie watched them troop out of the parlour with downturned mouths.

The four of them sat at the kitchen table in the farmhouse - Jake next to Bryony and Donnie next to Danu. Donnie was trying to explain what the accounts contained but there were a couple of barriers to comprehension.

'He's been syphoning off money from property clients, but only on a temporary basis - like an unauthorised loan.' Three blank faces looked at him. He would have to start at the beginning.

Sunny poked her face around the door.

'Mikey's got a rat.'

Bryony looked up to the ceiling and went after the girl and the dog. The other two turned back to Donnie.

'Interim billing, it's called.'

'If you're buying a house or whatever, you transfer the money to the solicitor.' They nodded.

'Then, when the deal goes through, the money is transferred to the buyer's solicitor, who transfers it to the seller.'

'Why?' Jake looked puzzled.

'No idea - it's just what you do. This is the law - they make it up as they go along. At least, someone did fifty years ago, and that's what they do now.'

'Anyway - the point is that the solicitor holds the buyer's money for weeks - and they are supposed to leave it untouched. But our Mr Rutter has been using it to pay day-to-day bills - wages, rent, all that stuff. He just makes sure that there's enough in the bank to pay it back when necessary.'

'I don't understand - if he has to pay it back - what's the point? And if he pays it back, why is it wrong?'

'Look - if he's always got, say, three property purchases on the go - they never come in at the same time, so he can spend some of the latest purchase to cover the oldest and so on - at the very least, he saves interest on getting an overdraft and at the worst, he only has to have enough for the current purchase, and he can dip his hands into the two oldest ones.'

'So is it illegal?' Donnie could see they still didn't understand, but Danu had accepted it.

'No - I don't think so - but they can get struck off for it. Happens all the time.'

'They prepare an interim bill for their services, then take, say, ten times that amount - like they had made a mistake and put an extra zero in.

'Then, a month later, they re-pay the money and do a final bill - if they get caught, they just pass it off as a mistake but there's a pattern here of doing it on all the big accounts.'

'Does that mean we can get him to drop the claim or the eviction notice.'

'No - sorry.' He saw their faces fall, but he pressed on.

'We can keep it in reserve. If we tell anyone, they'll know we stole the laptop, and we'll be in a worse position than him. It's handy to know that we can put a bit of pressure on him, but we'll have to use it as a last resort.'

'So what do we do?'

'Trace Cecilia - I'll head back to town and see what I can do on Monday - I've got another address to check.'

'Are you staying for Purnima?' Danu said.

'What?'

'Purnima - the full moon festival - just some prayers to the Lord in the light of the moon.' Danu smiled at him knowing his atheist views.

'No - I'll head back to town.' He rose from the table and the others did too.

'I'll help you pack, then,' Danu said - though they both knew his bag was already packed.

## **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

### **_Genealogy_**

###

Monday started badly for Donnie with an escalated request from head office. Some consumer affairs program was complaining about a defunct account for a dead woman being re-opened and emptied before the will was executed. Why was it always Monday?

He forwarded the email to Debbie and walked through to her desk. It being Monday, none of them had even logged on yet. They started doing it as Donnie walked in, but Debbie had her back to him and she was sounding off about something to her pod-mate, who gave her the nod that the boss was behind her. She turned around and greeted him, brightly.

'Morning Mr Stevens. What can I do for you?'

'Don't let me interrupt your discussion,' he said.

'Oh we were just talking about genealogy - nothing important.' Donnie's sarcasm was like a gnat's bite to a rhinoceros for Debbie. He must have looked puzzled as she carried on.

'You know - tracing your family tree and all that - I've just signed on to a database thing - marvellous. You just put a name and address in and it comes up with birth certificates, death certificates, marriages, census and all that stuff - amazing.'

'Very interesting - but I just forwarded you an email from head office - another rush job - can you get on it straight away?'

'Yes Mr Stevens, no problem.'

Back in his own office, he fished out the notebook and copied the Chelsea address into the main computer to see if it was registered to an account holder.

He got one - Dr James McGarigle, the name on the bell-push - but nothing else. Well, it was worth a try. A knock on the open door interrupted him and Debbie walked in.

'Couldn't find anything, Mr Stevens.' He decided to take a risk and handed her the address.

'Anything for that one?'

He followed her out to the defunct accounts system and let her interrogate it.

'Oh that's a bit old - 1995 - can't be right, can it?'

'No - they made some mistake - print it out for me, will you and I'll reply to head-office.'

Once it had come off the printer, he went back to his office to reply to the original email, stuffing the printout into his pocket. The inter-bank system was better than any genealogy system - it had every historical bank account for every bank in the UK. Supposedly confidential and restricted access - but he wasn't really doing anything that bad in trying to find a missing person, surely?

He was interrupted in his musings by Debbie knocking on the open door of his office.

'This might help, Mr Stevens - it's an unusual name, so I put the woman's name and 1995 into my genealogy system, and it came up with a reference to a death certificate.' She handed him some printed sheets.

'And there's a will lodged in the same name.' She looked pleased with herself, but he had a cold sensation crawling up his spine. Messing with the bank's systems was a very serious transgression. He had been stupid to get Debbie to check it. He had to nip this in the bud right away. He adopted a stern expression.

'Thank you, Debbie, that is most kind of you and very imaginative.' She looked pleased and gave him a wide smile.

'However, it would constitute an intrusion into her affairs that we are not authorised to make. That kind of thing should be done by head-office.' Her face fell.

'Don't worry - if you don't say anything, neither will I.' He took the printout off her, and she brightened a little, as he tucked it into his top drawer.

With the outstanding bill on his secret credit card nearing five thousand he wasn't bothered about another nine pounds ninety-nine. He was hunched over the laptop on the kitchen table while the football blared out from the radio unheeded - Italy vs Ghana held little interest for him. England weren't playing again until Thursday.

Trial subscription paid he was on the website of the genealogy service that Debbie had been using. He had the printout from her search - the death of Mrs Joan Elizabeth Tayle at the Sloane Square address. There was probably an easier way to do all this, but not from his flat in Frognal. With an uncommon name he should have no problem.

Cecilia would have been born about 1940 or so, so he searched for the marriage of Mrs Joan Elizabeth Tayle from 1930 to 1940 - nothing found. He checked the spelling and widened the years - 1920 to 1960, that should do it.

He got one result - 1950 - The marriage to Mr Geoffrey Tayle of Mrs Joan Elizabeth Redican \- if that was her, then Cecilia wasn't legitimate, surely? Then the implication of the 'Mrs' hit him and he looked more carefully at the grainy image of the marriage certificate. She was a widow.

Swiftly he changed the search to birth certificates and within the minute he was examining the birth certificate of Cecilia Redican - twenty-ninth of February 1944. So Cecilia was not the biological relative of anyone called Tayle.

He leaned back as the significance of this dawned on him and let out the breath he was not aware he was holding. It was time for a celebratory drink. All he needed now was to check Grayson's lineage, but that could wait until after a stiff scotch.

Bill watched the moisture condense on the outside of the glass. It misted over, obscuring the golden liquid inside, and coalesced into drops that ran down the outside of the pint and on to the dark wood of the bar. He picked up the glass, the cold of the lager making his mouth water in anticipation. He took the pint to his lips and took a good mouthful, savouring the sweetness of the malt and the bitterness of the hops drawing slightly at his tongue as he swallowed. He gave a sigh of pleasure and set the glass back down on the bar. First of the night - it wouldn't be bettered.

Seated next to him, Donnie took a pull of his own beer, figuring out that this conversation would probably set him back two or three pints - more than the subscription to the genealogy website.

'So, about this property, Bill.'

'Yes Squire - tenants been expelled yet, or are you going to hire some muscle?' Bill obviously intended this as a joke, but his eyes were hard behind his thick glasses.

'No - different place.'

'Property empire? I'm impressed. When will you have made your first million?' He took another swig.

'No it's something else - a family matter.' Donnie pulled out the notebook and a pen, while Bill looked on dubiously.

'I've got a aunt whose cousin - on the other side of the family - just died.' Donnie paused for Bill to express his regrets - but he just took another drink, allowing Donnie to feel a little aggrieved for his fictitious relative.

'Well, she never left a will.' This did sting Bill into reacting.

'Bloody people. Should be shot - if they weren't dead already.' He laughed at his own joke, but his eyes remained sharp and spiteful, behind his thick glasses.

'Yes, well, the thing is that she wasn't a blood relation of my aunt.' Donnie started sketching Cecilia's family tree on the pad - but using different names. It was not as if Bill would know them, but it seemed somehow disrespectful.

'She was the child of her mother and the mother's first husband, and the cousin is the nephew of her second husband, here. So he's really a kind of cousin-in-law.' Bill was swilling the dregs of his pint around the otherwise empty glass, so Donnie signalled to the barman for a refill. When the barman began pouring, Bill answered him.

'Open and shut!'. He waited for the glass to arrive in front of him and took a small sip, while Donnie paid.

'If the second husband adopted her, then the cousin inherits. If he didn't then the cousin doesn't.'

'How do I find out?'

'That, as they say, is your problem.' Bill took a deep draught of the new beer and sighed contentedly.

'Of course there are complications, always bloody are with the law.' But Donnie was still thinking of adoption.

'Is it common?'

'Is what common?'

'Adopting your step kids.'

'Well, I don't have the stats to hand, but it's pretty common. I'm assuming your aunt is a bit older than you - there are other ways to establish inheritance rights, these days.'

'Right.' Donnie looked gloomily at his half drunk pint. Back to square one or square one and a half. He finished the drink - might as well make a night of it.

'Any other relatives?' Bill said, as he placed his empty glass on the bar.

'Nah - not that I know of of.'

'Then the aunt will probably get it anyway - it will just take ages for the bloody court to check - at least she'll get a share of it. Better than the bloody government getting it all.'

Donnie thought it might be a good time to turn to football. Bill was bound to have a view on the World Cup.

## **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

### **_Gumshoe II_**

###

Donnie counted up from 79 - the last entrance in Connaught Place that had a number. Five on, he stopped in front of a drab red door and checked the names on the four bell-pushes - and noticed the '87 Connaught Pl' handwritten on a faded label stuck under the letter box. No need to check the crumpled piece of paper that he had scrawled the address on - he had read it four or five times on his way up the road. Flat 3 was now 'S. N. Nilkanth'. He rang the bell anyway, hearing it ring out, echoing in what sounded like an empty house - as far as he could tell over the sporadic traffic in the side-road.

There was no answer. He stepped back and gazed up at the Georgian brickwork over what was now a chain coffee house. He wondered, briefly what it had been like in Cecilia's day. He decided to head back to the bank - he had only come here on a whim. He was, he decided, trying to get a picture of the woman he had never met. He imagined her to be ethereal and mostly concerned with philosophy and spirituality. It did not fit with the slightly distressed paintwork of the front door. This flat did not fit with the Chelsea apartment, either - she obviously did not have much of her mother's money, so he added her declining fortune to the thin, other-worldly woman pictured in his imagination.

He still had half an hour of his lunchtime left though, so he went inside the coffee house and ordered a cappuccino and a banana cup-cake - he had had enough of healthy eating at the Foundation. The place was nearly empty - a couple of tourists with guide books sat opposite him, talking in Italian and regarding the coffee with disdain, and a solitary office worker who sat reading the paper in the corner of the room.

With no newspaper and no computer he was reduced to staring out of the window at the flow of office workers to and fro. His mood of disappointment gradually faded to a feeling almost of contentment. He had done his best. There was little more to do. Surely it would be someone else's problem now, and he could concentrate on the taste of coffee and the sunshine reflecting off the bonnets of the parked cars.

## **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

### **_Lunchtime coffee_**

###

Donnie sat in the office nursing a cold cup of coffee and staring at the computer, without seeing the screen. On it was the confirmation email that he had been selected for an interview for the German job. On the table in front of him was his notebook, slightly beer stained and turned over at the corners. It was open at Cecilia's family tree.

Cecilia's mother, Joan, had married John Redican. Cecilia was born a few months later, in 1944. John Redican was killed the same year in the Allied invasion of the Netherlands. So she never knew her father, Donnie supposed.

Joan remarried in 1947 to Geoffrey Tayle, when Cecilia was three. Geoffrey's brother Malcolm married in 1950, and had had Grayson in 1953.

Cecilia changed her name to Redican-Tayle by deed poll in 1963 - though it was a bit of a waste of money, as she married Ralph Thompson in 1965 and took his name.

So what was the sum total of everything he had learned - Grayson's claim was legitimate if Geoffrey Tayle had adopted Cecilia. If he hadn't adopted Cecilia, the place would still belong to Grayson - it would just take longer.

He would give them the bad news, and concentrate on the German job, and getting his life back on track.

He walked up to the coffee shop again for lunch - beef sandwich and a cappuccino. He sat taking in the warm sunshine and congratulating himself on avoiding the pub. Perhaps the new Donnie Stevens was ready for the world.

## **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

### **_Tommy_**

###

Donnie sat in the Connaught Place coffee house again - it was getting to be a habit. None of the bank staff came here and he could clear his head of the urgent jobs from head office, the complaints with IT, the overdue assessments and the hassle getting the tickets for the trip to Germany.

Instead he watched a group of young tourists mill around outside with their maps and guidebooks and heated discussions. Beautiful young women and lucky young men. It could have been him, twenty years ago - though he had actually spent all his vacations working in various grim warehouses and offices around London. He turned his attention to the coffee as they moved off towards Hyde Park. He still hadn't phoned anyone at the Foundation - it didn't seem important now.

Behind him he heard American accents but tuned them out as he stared blankly through the window at the parked cars and the cyclist weaving his way along the pavement. The soft sponge of his cake took centre stage in his mind, and the faint taste of strawberry - or strawberry flavouring, at least. But something he overheard from behind him thrust the words of the American into his consciousness.

'Yeah - 'The Summer of Love' - that's what they called it, when I lived here. I knew your Ma then but I was living with another girl at the time. This place used to be a greengrocers and we would get fresh peaches on the way in, most days.'

Donnie found a mirror on the wall and studied the pair behind him, as best he could from an acute angle. All he was able to really make out was that the man who was talking was dressed in jeans and a jacket. Donnie wondered if the older man, with his typically loud American manner, knew Cecilia or any of her friends and associates. Well, Donnie thought, if he tells me to piss off, I'm old enough to take it. He turned around and checked out the two Americans. They looked like father and son - the older guy had a sixty-year-old's head on a twenty-year-old's body.

The younger one had a matching set of twenty-year-old's head and body, but you could see that in forty years, the older man's face would be staring out from his shaving mirror.

He approached their table and they looked up at him expectantly, with a slight air of trepidation. He launched straight in.

'Excuse me sir, I couldn't help overhearing that you lived upstairs from here in the sixties. I wonder if you knew Cecilia Thompson?'

The older man's expression showed surprise, swiftly displaced by wariness.

'Who wants to know?' He leaned back, giving Donnie a hard look. The younger one just looked puzzled, but Donnie felt a mounting sense of excitement. He needed to get his explanation in quickly.

'My name is Donald Stevens and I work for a bank - Ms Thompson's bank, as it happens, but I am actually acting on behalf of the Rainbow Foundation.'

He liked that 'acting on behalf of...' It made him sound official, rather than just a hippy's old college friend. The American's expression did not change.

'Would that be the Indrahanu Foundation?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

'Look, I left the Foundation same time as I left Cecilia - I don't know anything about them now - and I am not - N - O - T interested in any kind of redemption or spirituality - categorical.'

Bingo! It was her husband.

'I am just looking to try and trace Ms Thompson. It concerns her farm in Essex.'

'I'm sorry, man, I don't know nothing about no farm. I don't have an address for Ceclila either.'

'I don't like to impose but I wonder if I could take some of your time - any information about her would be a Godsend - I don't mean any harm to her and I can explain everything, if you can spare a few minutes.'

The American's expression did not soften.

'Sorry, I'm a little busy - showing my son around the old country.' He nodded at the lad while Donnie took in the knowledge that the American was actually English. At that point the kid spoke.

'Hey, why don't you guys touch base while I go back to the Chinese exhibition - you were getting pretty bored with that Dad.'

The father pursed his lips and gave his son the hard look, but after thinking for a few seconds, his expression softened and he took some notes out of his wallet and gave them to the kid.

'Yeah, ok you little shit - but get something for your Grandma, Kenneth - something with the Royal Academy crest on it - she's impressed with that sort of thing. Kenneth took the money and nodded to Donnie before leaving.

The father laughed once the kid was out of the door.

'Tells me he wants to see the artworks but the place is full of young girls - Chinese mostly - great lookers. Kid takes after his Dad.

Ok Let's have your pitch - but any mention of Ganesh or Vishnu and I'm out of here.'

Donnie held out a hand and the American reluctantly took it and introduced himself.

'Ralph Thompson, Donald - I was Cecilia's husband.'

'Call me Donnie, please. I'd no idea she was even married. Can I get you another coffee?'

'Not for me, thanks, Donnie, and everyone calls me 'Tommy', except for the taxman and the police.'

'It's the oldest story in the world. Cecilia and I were married, I met someone else, she took it badly and we didn't talk for the next twenty years.' Tommy stirred the remains of his black coffee and looked solidly at the cup, avoiding Donnie's eyes.

'I should be ashamed, I guess I am, but a lot of water has flowed under that bridge - lot of other things to be ashamed of - like I divorced Kenneth's mother two years ago, not least.'

'But, y'know I'm tired of being ashamed of myself, of apologising for being me. I don't want Kenneth to be the same - I don't want my daughter to marry someone like me - what can I say? Guilty as charged.'

He swirled the dregs in his cup and looked at Donnie defiantly, almost angrily. He had been turning over the past as he showed his son around the old haunts and his past held too many regrets for comfort. Donnie knew the feeling well.

'You and me both - I split up with mine last year. Not that I cheated on her - just not up to the job of being her husband. Sure you don't want another?' He held up his empty cup and Tommy shook his head.

'We should go to the pub and get pissed - but I don't want to set a bad example to the lad. Let me fill you in on what I know - hey look, I'm an American now, so you can have a side order of psychobabble and over-sharing with it.'

He laughed at his own joke, and sat up straight, staring out of the window into the busy street.

'How are you with spirituality?' Donnie sensed this was rhetorical and waited for Tommy to elaborate.

'It was fashionable in the sixties and we were nothing if not fashionable. Acid was too - you know it? LSD? I enjoyed it, it was a laugh - but I didn't buy any of the nonsense around it. Well, maybe I did, a bit - fashion eh?'

'Anyway, we took it a few times, but the last time Cecilia took it, she had a bad trip. Never quite understood what happened - like she saw evil spirits all around or something - all of our friends - and me - were inhabited by demons or evil spirits. We did our best but she was so distressed that in the end we took her to hospital where they lectured us on the evil of drugs, injected her with anti-psychotics and showed us the door.'

Tommy paused and patted the pockets of his jacket.

'Shit, I forgot - I gave up ten years ago - can you believe that? Fuck it, what was I saying?'

'After the hospital, yeah? We were all still high, Cecilia's head was fuck-knows-where and it was the middle of the night. We took her home and tried to put her to bed but it was the start of months of paranoia and neurosis. I think it was something from her childhood - you know her dad was killed in the war? Her mother was as weird as a Grateful Dead fan on Kool-Aid, and as for her step-dad - well, I wouldn't like to speculate. I never found out the truth, though.'

'She gave up drink and drugs - apart from the odd smoke - and got into yoga and meditation - I kinda tagged along. I think I genuinely loved her then - no, scratch that - I really did love her, heart and soul. And I wanted her to be well. It just kinda escalated - the meditation class led to long boring lectures on re-birth and karma and all that stuff. And I'll come clean now - most of the people there were female and all of them were kinda trusting or needy or whatever.'

'Fuck it, I was bored. Cecilia never knew - least I think she didn't - but I must've screwed six or seven of them. I had a get-out about sex being a sacrament, and all that, but I never had to use it. I wish I could say they were good memories, but I'd be lying. There was a kind of desperation in me - what I wanted, I couldn't tell you. Maybe I just wanted the old Cecilia back, who knows? Not that I'm blaming her, not at all - at least, not then.'

'A couple of the guys in the temple thing - a Mandir, they called it - could play guitar, and Sonja, one of the girls, bought a bass. They got a drummer from somewhere and started playing. I had stopped screwing around with the other girls for some reason, but Sonja - well, I couldn't leave her alone. She was American. And, in those days, anything American was so cool and sexy - still is, I guess.

'Well I volunteered to manage the band and got them a few gigs - I've always been good at blagging my way around - painted posters and things like that. Pop music was a piece of piss back then, not like now. Anyone could do it - no-one thought of it as a career or a business. The band were doing ok - we even recorded a couple of covers and a truly dreadful song that I wrote the words to - I'm not even going to tell you the title.'

'Meanwhile Cecilia was like number two to the guru - starting to learn Sanskrit, reading the 'Gita and all that. She was heavily into auras and chakras and so on. You know chakras? No? Like points of power or hot-spots on your body where the spirit is supposed to enter and leave, as far as I remember.'

'Top one is here' - Tommy tapped his forehead between the eyes.

'Another over your vocal chords, another at the top of the rib-cage and so-on, down in a straight line to the one between your legs. I had some fun with that one, I can tell you. Bottom line is, her mind was drawn higher and higher, while mine was getting lower and lower.'

He looked around and leant forward, conspiratorially.

'Hey, don't tell Kenneth any of this, will you? He knows I'm a shit but no point is spelling it out to the kid.'

'Then I started cheating on Sonja - like cheating on the woman you were cheating on your wife with - not my finest hour. One day, Cecilia wouldn't let me screw her, so I went and saw Sonja - she wasn't feeling great but I got a quick one off her, then saw a couple of pub owners to try and get the band on, before screwing another girl back at the guru's temple - in a little store room we used for the band's equipment.'

'I came out to find Cecilia outside - she didn't know I'd been screwing the girl, but she suspected something and started giving me grief, so I retaliated - I remember saying that, if she wanted a sex-free marriage, she would have to look elsewhere. I might have patched that up when we had both calmed down if Sonja hadn't found us arguing and chosen that moment to tell Cecilia that we were lovers - and that she was pregnant.'

'It blew Cecilia apart - I didn't know Sonja was pregnant, either, it was nothing I'd planned. I still don't know what insecurities Cecilia was living with, but I swear to God that I never would have done it if I'd known what it was going to do to her. She just fell apart. I wish she'd have been angry - you know, like you read about - clothes shredded, records scratched and the rest - but she just cried, like, all the time. I moved out. I shacked up with Sonja. She was more than two months gone, then - not that I would have wanted an abortion or anything. Look I'll show you a picture - Cerise - she's doing her Ph.D. at Vanderbilt and lecturing in Medieval Studies - a real looker.'

Tommy pulled his wallet out of an inside pocket. There was a small clutch of pictures in one compartment and he pulled them out, spreading them on the table in front of Donnie and tapping one - a smiling, dark-haired girl in a graduation gown. It was difficult to make out anything in the small picture, but Donnie could see the resemblance to Kenneth who was the subject of one of the other three pictures.

'Nice kids - you must be proud.' Donnie was not a great fan of other people's kids, but he was used to being admiring when the photos were produced.

'Damn right - only good thing I ever done was fathering those kids.' He looked thoughtful for a moment. Donnie wondered if he was supposed to interrupt and assure Tommy that he was a great guy, but he held his peace.

'Once the baby was born, Cecilia seemed to go off the rails completely.' He shook his head.

'She started putting letters through the door - asking me to go back to her, saying I didn't need Sonja - letters to Sonja saying that I couldn't be the father and it must of been one of the other men she slept with - all that kind of thing. She didn't, by the way - Sonja, I mean. She wasn't sleeping with anyone else - that was just Cecilia's bad-mouthing.'

'What did you do?'

'I went to the police, in the end. Back then, there wasn't all the stuff about stalkers that you get these days. After bawling them out for hours, I got them to go around and tell her she might be sectioned - you know, locked up in an asylum or whatever. That did finally stop her.'

'Hey, look, I think I'll take you up on another coffee.'

Donnie went to the counter and ordered. He watched Tommy through a mirror at the back of the counter. He just stared at the table, moving the photographs of his kids around before eventually packing them back into his wallet, as Donnie came back to the table. Tommy launched back into the tale.

'Sonja wanted to go to the States - I won't bore you with the details, but we wanted a divorce so I could marry Sonja - make it easier for me to get a green card, and all that. '

'Cecilia wouldn't do it - said she believed that marriage was sacred, and all that shit. I called her a selfish bitch and told her I'd divorce her. Then I found out that the only reliable way was to be separated for two years. I tell you man, that second year was fucking long year - with plenty of bad feeling on both sides.'

'The lowest point was when she sent a letter to the US Embassy saying to watch out for Sonja bringing in a man on an arranged marriage - like I'd paid her to get my way in to the States. It didn't work, of course. But it got us worried - she sent a copy to us, just to piss us off.'

'When the time was up, I got the divorce, Sonja and me got hitched, we applied for my visa and they interviewed us. Cerise clinched it - she was eighteen months then and a fucking beautiful baby. We took her with us and no-one could have doubted that we were a real family.'

'I let Cecilia know that it didn't work, that she was a mean bitch and all that - I even put in a few jibes about her supposed spirituality - and I think that hit the spot.'

'She sent me a letter full of cursing and telling me that I was bound for hell - fair enough, I suppose. I tore it up, put it in an envelope and sent it back to her. Then Sonja, Cerise and I fucked off to the States and I never heard from her again.'

'I managed a couple of bands - Sonja played in one of them, but her heart wasn't in it, once she had a kid.'

'Then, when I was getting a bit long in the tooth, I joined a record company as an A and R man, then a promoter and all that shit - gradually rising up the corporate ladder and enjoying a few of the perks that you get in the record industry, if you get my drift.' Tommy flexed his arm up in the age-old gesture and grinned.

'I know - I'm a shit. In like, no time, we had four kids. So Sonja was a full-time mum. The only other thing she had time for was her fucking yoga - and meditation too. I mean, she wasn't as bad as Cecilia but....' He shrugged.

'Mind you - she's twenty years older than you and she's had four kids, but if you saw her now, you wouldn't say 'no' - you know what I mean. I work out in the gym - fucking treadmill, cross-trainer, weights - but her body is years younger than mine, to look at.'

'I suppose that's what made it worse. Sex just disappeared between us, after she had the menopause.' He stared into space and Donnie had to fill the silence.

'With my wife, sex disappeared after the honeymoon.' As soon as Donnie said it, he hated himself. It wasn't true and it wasn't fair, but Tommy had a way of turning a man into one the old boys who used to drink with Donnie. Woman haters, but someone to talk to until the Guinness took hold. At least it got a laugh out of Tommy, and he restarted his tale.

'Well, that's why we divorced. I wasn't travelling with work, then. So I figured that, as a single man I'd be playing the field again. But a single man in his sixties is a different thing than one in his twenties, my friend'. He shook his head before carrying on.

'I came back a couple of times to see my Ma and Pa - but I never bothered getting in touch with anyone else. Dad died last year and I stayed on, after the funeral. Mum needs someone to look after her and I'm available - the record company 'let me go' two years ago. So I been here ever since. Kenneth came over - he's having a gap year in Europe and looked up his old Dad.'

'We just came into town for a couple of days for me to show him the sights and I thought I'd show him where I used to live - and that's all I know, really. I haven't heard from Cecilia in years - and I never heard about the farm at all.'

Donnie filled him in on what little he knew of Cecilia after her time with Tommy.

'Hey look - I'm willing to give a character statement - maybe say that she would never sell out to a developer - maybe that will help? I'll give you my phone number - you give me yours and let me know what you find out, yeah?'

'And if you do find her - tell her I'm sorry, and give her my number. I'm not looking to get back together - just to apologise and, well, tell her that I really did love her, once. '

They finished their lukewarm coffees and emerged into the weak sunlight, just as Kenneth came back up the street with a carrier bag with the Royal Academy crest on the side.

'One last thing - her maiden name, she probably went back to using that - it was 'Redican-Tayle' - bit of a mouthful, some offshoot of a family of aristos.'

'You might try and see if her mom's still alive - she lived someplace in Chelsea after she left her second husband.'

Donnie showed him the address of 'Mrs T'.

'Yeah that's the old bat - Mrs Tayle. The Redican bit was her dad's name.'

Tommy shook his hand again and draped his arm over his son's shoulders and they walked off, leaving Donnie to wander slowly back to the bank, lost in thought.

## **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

### **_A German Interlude_**

###

Donnie sipped his beer and watched the rain bouncing off the pavement outside the cafe. It had seemed like a good idea at the time - with an interview on the Friday, it seemed only sensible to stay over on Saturday and experience Cologne first hand. Now, he was not so sure. It would have been an excellent idea if it had not started raining when he touched down in Bonn, and carried on unremittingly, ever since.

The crumpled tourist map lay unheeded on the table, next to a dish of peanuts and a half-full bottle of lager. Cathedrals and art galleries were not really his thing. It looked a nice enough place, but maybe he should have formed a plan before he came.

Once again he relived the interview on Friday afternoon. It hadn't gone well. He was expecting the typical English approach - what were his hobbies, how had he discharged his role as a team-leader, what did he think the function of a manager should be - answers all prepared in advance and mentally rehearsed.

Instead they had asked him about currency options, futures trading and the Scholes-Black formula. Each one rang vague bells in his mind. He managed to dredge up something for each - the Scholes-Black formula in particular had convinced him that he would never be a proper trader in the city. All he could remember was that it guaranteed that whatever you bet on, you could win, if you had deep enough pockets. But to him it always sounded like the dubious schemes that gamblers advocated in the pub - complex, long-winded and always ending with a request to borrow some money.

He should have been looking at apartments, comparing prices in the supermarkets and garages, but his heart was not in it. His chances of living here looked as remote as Trinidad's chances of winning the World Cup, and as bleak as the relentlessly grey skies.

A couple of women entered the bar and shook out their coats before walking past Donnie, who had grabbed a table with a view out of the window.

They were speaking far too quickly for him to follow, even if his German had been up to the task, and he felt a sudden pang of homesickness. Maybe that was a sign. Homesickness after a mere twenty hours didn't bode well for making a new life here.

He fished out a crumpled leaflet he had found in the hotel - 'Visit the world famous Pascha - Cologne's red light adventure'. Unwise, he thought. His credit card was maxed out, and he was supposed to be a reformed character and a respectable character, at that.

He read the directions again, and finished his beer.

## **CHAPTER NINETEEN**

### **_A solution of sorts_**

###

The barking of the dogs heralded a visitor to the farm. At this time on a weekday morning it was usually Charlie the postman, so Danu hurried through the farmhouse to the gate - Charlie usually waited a few minutes, to see if she came. It saved him a bit of effort. The dogs never worried him, he was used to that on his rural rounds - he got more trouble from the London commuters and the second-homers with their complaints of gates left open or gravel messed up - they expected the countryside to be as clean and hygienic as their offices.

Danu arrived and took the post as they exchanged a few words. She was a Londoner, he knew, but she was posh enough to know that the country estate was full of mud and horse-shit. Not a bad-looking woman, if you liked that type, he thought as he drove away - always cheered him up, anyway.

Danu sorted through the post, tutting at the junk mail and frowning at the ones that looked official - nothing nice - no-one seemed to write anymore, it was all emails, and their desperately old computer had been out of commission for months.

There was one for Stephen - that made her frown even more. He had been expecting word from the court - she assumed they were going to prosecute over the dope. She took the bills into the office and walked the hundred yards to the cottage to deliver the letter, with the old Labrador plodding alongside her.

Jake was pulling off the side-shoots of the next set of tomato plants when he heard the shotgun. It startled him because there were no guns on the farm, but it was clearly only a few hundred yards away. He ran out of the Earthship expecting to find some lads from one of the surrounding farms, maybe after a rabbit or a rat. He saw Danu running towards the cottage and followed her, almost catching her before she opened the door and ran inside. He stopped, unable to see past her into the dark interior. She turned to face him, and buried her head in his shoulder, sobbing.

## **CHAPTER TWENTY**

### **_Summer Solstice_**

###

'Donnie?'

'Danu - hi - what's the matter?' He could hear the catch in her voice. It was the first time she had phoned him at work. Fortunately Dave was out for lunch and he was alone in the little office they shared.

'Stephen - he's killed himself.' Donnie did not know what to say. He had been hoping to go back to the farm at the weekend with the news about Tommy, but this was too much to take in.

'Why - not the drugs?'

'He was on a suspended sentence. He got a notice to go to the court to be re-sentenced - he would have gone back to prison, and he just couldn't face it.'

'Danu - I'm sorry, if I hadn't - ' She cut in quickly.

'Don't be silly, it's not your fault - it was Tony and he's in the police station now.'

'Why?'

'It was his shotgun. He hid it somewhere when the police were here. He can't hold a licence, so it's illegal - as soon as we reported Stephen, the police were round. They picked Tony up half a mile away - they knew it was his gun because of the shells they found when they raided the place. If they find his prints on the gun - and they're bound to - he'll be going down.'

'If there's anything I can do, just ask.' Donnie didn't know what he could do - and so far all he had done was make matters worse.

'Could you come up? Just for tonight? We have to go through with the Purmina - after that, I could do with someone to hold me.'

He looked at the clock on the computer -

'Look - I'll tell them I'm not feeling well - I can be there about four.'

Donnie passed a couple of police cars on the final winding road to the farm. He saw the police taking his number, but ignored it and continued to the farm, opening the gate and braving the three dogs who came to meet him. They knew him now and he patted heads and rubbed ears for a couple of minutes before parking and walking to the farmhouse. No-one responded to his quiet knock. He walked on to the Earthship, and he saw the police incident tape around blocking the door to the cottage - though there did not seem to be any obvious police presence.

In the Earthship Jake, Bryony and Danu were sitting on the floor, all three in the lotus position and breathing evenly. With the noise of his entry, they turned to him and Danu jumped to her feet - Donnie was amazed, yet again, at the agility of such a big woman. Jake rose more slowly, followed by Bryony.

'I'm sorry about Stephen' were Donnie's first words to them, but a hug from Danu and an arm around his shoulder from Jake reduced the tension and guilt he felt.

'Not your fault, man - destiny - he was always gonna do that one day. It's Billy and Frankie I feel sorry for.'

'Are they taking it badly?' Donnie knew the words to be stupid when he said them, but it was all he could think of to say.

'Billy hit a policeman - so he's in the nick as well as Tony.' Jake was matter-of-fact. 'And Frankie was sectioned. They'll be pumping her full of some shit, to make her a zombie version of normal.'

'It's all my fault - I'm so sorry.' Donnie bowed his head. If he had only have refused to be drawn into the hair-brained scheme. He just wanted to get out and get back to London.

'If I was allocating blame - which I'm not, but anyway, I'd say that Tony takes top billing there - followed by Stephen, though he's so easily led, it would be unfair.' Jake sat down again onto the floor.

'Where's Sunny?' Donnie asked Jake, but it was Bryony who replied.

'Angel's got my wild child. Her Ma and Pa are too far out.'

'We thought it best to...' Jake started on an explanation but petered out. Danu took over from him.

'Jake thinks we should use mushrooms for the Purmina and it can release disturbing things - Sunny is a bit young.' Donnie assumed they meant the magic mushrooms.

'I thought you said the police had destroyed them.'

'They trampled them, but I collected the pieces and dried them. They're brewing now.' He pointed at a white enamel pan on the wood-burner, in which a couple of logs were burning heartily. Donnie knew nothing about mushrooms, other than that they were a favourite of the New Age Travellers a few years ago. Jake was speaking again.

'In troubled times, we can use them to open our eyes to the true nature of things, so that we can pick our path through the many obstacles that will litter it.'

'One, two, three, Out.' Bryony said and rose to her feet. Danu saw Donnie's confusion and mouthed 'Count me out', before interceding with Bryony.

'Oh come on Bryony, we can't do the ceremony with just two of us. You don't have to use the mushrooms yourself.'

'It will cloud your minds, your minds will merge with mine and my mind minds the cloudy weather.' With that she walked out of the Earthship, while the other two remained, seated on the floor. Donnie felt conspicuous lounging on a red paisley-patterned bean bag, but in spite of some lessons in yoga from Danu, he felt far too stiff to join them, with their elegantly folded legs.

Depression filled the room, reflected in Jake and Danu's faces. It was his fault. Tony deserved to be in prison, but it was Donnie's fault that he had gone along with it. He couldn't even think about Stephen, Billy and Frankie. He had felt like this many times as a kid when his parents had argued, and then he had reprised the feeling many times more with Sarah when she listed his short-comings. There was an ache inside him to set things right.

'Maybe I can help?' The timidity of his voice surprised him.

'No, thank you, but this ceremony is about belief.' Danu replied while Jake shook his head, slowly. At that moment, Bryony walked back into the room.

'I'll do it, if we are four.'

'But Donnie - he's Mr Logic, he can't help.' Danu replied before he could.

'Not if he has the brew - he'll be like new - a magic baby.' Bryony pointed at the enamel pot. He swallowed nervously. He was here to offer sympathy, to hold hands, to comfort them, not to take part in their dumb ceremony. But Bryony stared at him, while the other two waited for him to reply. He nodded his assent.

'I don't mind. I'll do it.'

They discussed it for what seemed like an age. Jake argued theology - or, at least, what sounded to Donnie's ears like theology. Danu simply said that they shouldn't impose on him, while Bryony remained silent, sitting cross-legged, a little apart from the others. Eventually, Jake asked him if he was really prepared to do it, and he nodded, slipping from the beanbag onto the floor, and arranging his legs as best he could.

Taking the pot off the stove, and collecting four small ceramic beakers, Jake positioned himself opposite Bryony, and Danu shuffled around opposite Donnie, so that they formed an approximate square. He poured an inch into each cup and placed a cup in front of each of them.

Bryony took hers, and poured the contents into Donnie's cup.

'Only a few sips,' Jake said, before starting what sounded like a prayer in another language - Sanskrit, maybe. He raised his cup to his lips and drank, followed by Danu. Donnie noted that they had nearly drained theirs, so he took a good mouthful - almost spitting out the foul tasting liquid, swirling with little bits of the earthy, rubbery mushroom flesh.

There was only a small amount left in his cup, so when, after another invocation they raised the cups again, he finished his. This happened a couple more times, and he merely raised the empty cup to his lips.

Bryony topped up their cups and he took another sip. Danu and Jake had lapsed into silence, just the sound their even breathing filling the air. Bryony seemed to be staring at him, her eyes boring into him. He was getting acutely uncomfortable. His legs were aching and his spine was starting to protest - years of sitting in a chair, he supposed. He took another sip of the mushroom brew - it still tasted foul, but it gave him an excuse to move.

He closed his eyes, listening to the breathing of the others, leaning forward and straightening his spine to take the pressure off the top of his back. After a minute or two, the regular sound deepened into something like snoring or grunting and he snapped his eyes open. Everything was as before, Danu and Bryony sat with straight spines and legs flat against the ground. Bryony was also in the lotus position but slumped forward, face covered by her long hair. All three were breathing easily - he must have made the odd grunting sounds himself. He sipped the vile brew again, for something to do - he was getting bored, as well as increasingly stiff. He wondered when this would end.

As soon as he closed his eyes, animal sounds began to intrude on his consciousness. He shifted his position again and opened his eyes. Danu and Jake were as before, but seemed more like bronze statues - God knows there were enough of those things around the Foundation. Bryony, with her bowed head seemed smaller still, and all hair. He didn't recall her having such abundant black hair, but it may have been the light. He drained his cup and set it down, closing his eyes.

The stiffness in his neck was getting stronger - he wasn't sure he could continue this much longer. He wondered how they would react if he jumped up and massaged his aching legs and shoulders. The fantasy of easing his muscles took centre stage of his mind, but he was still aware of the rising sound of a drum. Imitating the heart, its _thump-thump, thump-thump_ seemed to command his own heart to beat in time. He half-opened his eyes to try and detect the drummer. From his limited viewpoint, nothing was visible other than Bryony, and the bronze knees of Danu and Jake. Bryony raised her head and the heavy black wings of hair parted. They revealed the red eyes and white teeth of a wild animal, a long pink tongue lolling to one side of the saliva-drenched mouth.

He shook his head and opened his eyes fully. Jake and Danu were full statues now - naked and bronzed, eyes closed in contemplation, while the animal that had been Bryony rocked back and forth, readying itself for some sudden and bloody violence. The beat of the drum had quickened to a violent and insistent rhythm, and with it his heartbeat.

He jumped to his feet, almost falling again as the cramped limbs took his weight after the agony of sitting still. The eyes of the two statues were slowly opening to regard him, but the wild beast was up and circling him with murderous intent.

He stumbled towards the door as the naked bronze figures exploded into movement. They made to stop him, but he hit out, missing them but causing them to back off as he pulled open the door and ran out into the farmyard, a light rain falling against his head.

He ran away from the Earthship and through the kitchen garden. It was cloudy and the dim light seemed ominous and foreboding.

He was headed towards his car but somehow found himself on the track leading to the bottom fields. The clumps of grass between the two tyre tracks seemed to reach up and catch at his feet and he floundered from one side to the other for yards before one of the clumps managed to catch him and he fell heavily through the low hedge at the side of the track and into the drainage ditch.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky, the rain lightly pattering onto his face and causing him to blink every few seconds as a drop found his eyes. The grey sky and black outlines of the hedge seemed to throb with his fluttering eyelids, and his heart hammered in his chest in reaction to the fear that gripped it.

Shouts and approaching footsteps announced that the others had found his direction of flight and part of him wanted to roll up small and motionless until they had passed, but he heard his own voice cry out loud in fear - begging them to find him, enfold him, shelter him from the world that so wanted to tear him apart.

Donnie drove home. He should have taken the train, but he did not want to return to the farm to pick up the car - he never wanted to go back there.

Danu had cleaned him up and dabbed his cuts with her home-made tinctures, and all three of them had tried to make him stay the night. Bryony in particular was distraught.

'My fault, my fault' she kept saying. Donnie found it difficult to follow the conversation as he was distracted continually by the changing planes of their faces, and the continuous movements occurring at the edges of his vision.

He could contribute little to the conversation. His brain seemed only to be capable of receiving impressions without understanding or reacting to them. Bryony seemed to think he had stolen a child. Jake took her to one side and they had a quiet conversation as Danu dabbed his cuts.

Jake had told him that it would pass - but what or when or why was beyond him. Danu cradled his head and he breathed in her familiar smell, comforted and cushioned, but still somehow frantic inside.

Later, he was able to calculate that is was another couple of hours before he became capable of thought and action. And his first thought was to get away, to go home. This place was not his home and it was not safe. Jake had physically restrained him and he had subsided until he was able to manoeuvre himself close to the door and wait until Jake, no doubt tired and upset, was on the other side of the room.

He had thought this through carefully. He jumped up and pulled the door open, almost leaping through the opening and slamming it behind him. He ran to the car and jumped inside, starting it before Jake could even get through the door of the Earthship. He drove off and turned in a big circle and down the track that took him to the other end of the farm - giving him time to open the gate and escape to the Colchester Road and freedom.

The car was dirty inside - dust on the dashboard, crumbs on the passenger seat, soil on the carpets - even a spider on a web hung loosely between the driver's mirror and the window. It distressed him rather than disgusted him and so Donnie was able to tolerate it for the two hours it took him to get back to the flat.

Driving was difficult. Odd shapes would appear in the sky - cloud formations that seemed more solid than clouds should be, and which threatened him. By the time he hit the M25, he was feeling sick and scared. There was an old blue Transit van in the inside lane and he stuck behind it, doing little more than fifty miles an hour, until it turned off. He carried on, trying to keep his speed level. A couple of miles from his junction he was forced to pull onto the hard shoulder and vomit up an acid-tasting mouthful that contained nothing recognisable. Getting back into the car, he cleaned his mouth on a dirty tissue he found in the drivers door pocket, and got back on the road before the police noticed him.

When he reached home it offered little relief - the kitchen in particular was grimy and dust-covered. Donnie got out a bucket, scourer and bleach and set about the sink and surfaces. The cooker defeated him - he managed the hob, but the oven hadn't been used since Sarah left, and was caked with old, burnt-on grease that the scourer would hardly touch .

Donnie sat in the damp kitchen in front of the open oven door, and wept. Nothing inside of him corresponded to the waves of grief that hit him like punches to the stomach. Empty feelings with no subject, no focus, no hope of overcoming.

Donnie cleaned up the mess he had created with the scourer, and closed the oven door. He felt a little better after crying, but inside him was still a huge void of emptiness and despair. He probed it like he would an aching tooth, speculating about what might fill the void - drink? No, too gross. Friends? What friends? Food - his stomach heaved at the thought. Maybe sleep - no sleeping pill, unfortunately - he had never had a problem sleeping, never needed them. But maybe he could sleep.

He was half-way to the bedroom when the doorbell rang. He was going to ignore it, but maybe it would help to talk to the postman, gas-man or whoever.

It was Bryony. She was dressed in various shades of brown and brownish-green. Her lank brown hair matched her clothes and her world-weary expression matched the way Donnie felt. Cursing the decision to open the door, Donnie invited her in and headed for the now-clean kettle.

'We were worried about you - so I came to see if you were ok - We would all have come, but we only had enough money...' She trailed off. Looked like he would have to give her the fare, just to get rid of her. Donnie struggled to be kind.

'Thanks Bri - I'll give you the money for the fare - not a problem.'

'I wasn't asking for money - I was just explaining. Danu and Jake wanted to come, but it was my fault, and my responsibility' She was twisting the corner of the corduroy shirt she was wearing over her green smock, like a young girl up in front of the form-mistress.

Silence ensued until Donnie had the tea brewed. Donnie didn't have any herbal, so she just had hot water. Donnie had black tea - there was no milk. They put the hot mugs down and sat either side of the kitchen table.

'How do you feel?'

'Like shit.'

'Sorry - I've had a bad trip, myself - maybe I can help?'

'Maybe you could have helped by...' Donnie started out on the recriminations, but she started crying immediately. He had no energy for this.

'I'm sorry Donnie - really I am.' She managed this through the sobs. He believed her. For once she was talking in English instead of her normal gibberish. Something must have shocked her. Him, he guessed.

He patted her thin hand - it was cold and he had the feeling that he should have held it to warm it up, but he had to keep telling myself that these people had betrayed him - poisoned him.

A bubble of emptiness rose up and engulfed him. He gulped the tea and burned his tongue, trying to swallow it. She looked up at him through her greasy hair - at least she didn't wear mascara. Tears had left a silver trail down her brown skin, ending in a damp patch at the neck of her green smock. Her face retained the grimace that was meant to indicate her concern for him.

'Are you afraid? It will go, I know - honestly, it will.'

'No - I'm not afraid, not afraid - just empty.' Saying it released a bubble of self-pity and two tears rolled down the cheeks. Bryony got to her feet and came around the table. She pulled his head to her chest and smoothed his hair as if he was Sunny with a grazed knee.

Donnie could scarcely feel her small breasts through the stiffness of her bra and the plastic buttons of the cotton smock. he put an arm around her waist.

'You know, it's funny but I wouldn't have thought you would wear a bra.'

She laughed - the first time I'd heard her laugh.

'A hippy with a bra? - A new species, Captain Logic? - Actually it's just a slip.'

'What the hell?' He thought, 'she owes me.'

He took her other breast in his free hand. He could hardly feel it through her clothes. He opened the buttons on her smock from neck to waist, while she kissed the top of his head. Her slip was a blue one, covered in small stylised daisies, with slightly grubby lace at the top. Its built-in foundation was stiff under the fingers and Donnie reached inside it to free her breast, feeling the small hard nipple in the palm of his hand.

It was dark when he woke up. The red LEDs of the clock were blurred in his eyes, but he thought it said 5:37. He could see the bedroom by the street light that bled around the curtains. Bryony lay beside him. Her hair was fanned out over the pillow and one breast was exposed by the quilt which seemed to run diagonally across the bed from her side to his. The chill of being half-naked had woken him - that and the need to pee.

Back from the toilet he encountered Bryony rising from the bed.

'My turn' she said as she passed him, running a hand down his front as far as the pubic hair. Donnie rearranged the duvet, slipped underneath it and waited for her to return.

By late morning, Donnie was almost back to normal. They made love again and shared a shower before they dressed. He gave her what money he had, felling vaguely like he had been using a prostitute, and walked down to the station with her.

'Will we see you again?' she said at the barrier.

'I don't know.' Donnie said. 'Give me a few days to think about it.'

She kissed him and left. She looked better this morning. Her hair was clean and her brown skin seemed to glow in the morning sun. Donnie was glad she was leaving - glad to be on his own again, away from the pressure of people.

He walked back to the flat feeling depressed, washed out and colourless. The world outside his eyeballs was sunny and full of bright colours - the red of the buses, the green of the scrubby grass verge, the vibrant blues and yellows of the flowers in the hanging baskets of the pub that he passed.

He thought dully about the contrast - grey him, colourful world, colourful world, grey him - a mantra repeated and repeated until he mounted the steps of the flat and opened the absurdly golden Yale lock. He went to the kitchen via a hailstorm of bright dust-motes in the hall and put the kettle on - caught up for a moment in the gleam of the kettle's metallic skin.

So Donnie sat in the kitchen with a mug, a tea bag and a spoon waiting for the kettle to boil and in that time, an ecstasy descended on him. Everything was right, everything was good, he was at one with every other thing in the world - the mug, the tea-bag, the spoon, even the kettle, singing to him in bass chuckles and tenor hisses. For what seemed like half an hour, Donnie floated, wordless, in a sea of boundless joy, gradually returning, with no regrets, to the world where the mug and he were as separate as they had always been.

He had rung work and told them that the virus would keep him off on Friday as well. The high from last night kept him slightly insulated from the world. It resembled those mornings when he fancied himself still drunk from the night before. Wrapped in cotton wool with a vague feeling that a monster hangover would descend on him at any moment.

He went shopping, buying a selection of ready meals. He walked the wine and beer section of the supermarket, but left it empty-handed. He struggled to remember what household items he needed and ended up with a single spray bottle of bathroom cleaner. He thought he should buy something healthy and grabbed a bag of apples and a carton of almonds. His brain was fogged and useless and waiting for the hangover to clear the clouds away.

Back at the flat, he tried to put away the bathroom cleaner, but the little cupboard he used for cleaning materials was full of every kind of surface cleaner, anti-septic spray, hand-cleaner and bleach. He stuffed the extra bottle on top of the others. It was at that point that the hangover finally descended.

As if the ground under him had opened up, he was swallowed by what seemed to be the ultimate reality of his life. Worthless, directionless, loveless and pointless. He lacked the energy even to weep.

## **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

### **_Cecilia_**

###

'Hi, am I speaking with Donald Stevens?' The mid-Atlantic voice was excited and eager. Donnie didn't need to hear anything more about the Foundation \- especially not from a half-American lothario at nine in the morning. He hadn't slept and his vision was still disturbed. But he answered civilly

'Yes - hi Tommy - no news from me, I'm afraid, I haven't...'

'I found her - that is, she found me.' Tommy interrupted. Donnie was wondering how he could tell Tommy that he had washed his hands of the whole thing. He had never been good at asserting himself - something that Sarah always reminded him of, mid-way through any argument. True to form, he shifted the phone to his left hand and sat down, cradling his head in his right hand while he listened.

'This is a bit delicate, man. I'll have to give it to you straight - she's dying.'

'Oh - I'm sorry.' Donnie wished he was - He could not seem to connect with anything at the moment.

'Yeah - me too. But I'm kinda glad she got in touch with me - that is, she sent a letter to my folks.'

'Oh yes - you're looking after your mother, right?' Donnie at least had a functioning memory.

'Well, Ma's looking after me, really - but, yeah, that's what I tell people.' Tommy laughed and Donnie smiled as if Tommy could see his face - a thin smile that acknowledged the laughter without sharing it.

'Anyways, I went over to the hospital and got to talk to her. Poor thing, she's so thin and - like - old, you know?' Donnie nodded, pointlessly, into the phone.

'I wasn't there that long. Poor old girl - she asked me to forgive her - of course I do. I asked the same so we were kind of quits. It was great, really good - we were talking for an hour and a half, though, and I could tell she was getting tired, but just before I left I mentioned you and the Foundation and she said maybe you could come visit.'

Donnie did not want to be drawn into this again. He wanted to shut that part of his life down, permanently.

'I don't think that would be a good idea,' he said, marshalling his arguments as to why it was not, but Tommy replied immediately.

'Honestly, she's not as weak as it sounds - it's just that I remember her in the old days, but she's feisty enough - and it would sure take her mind of the - well, you know, off dying.'

Shit, Donnie thought. Now a man he hardly knew wanted to use him to entertain a dying woman he had never met. Just what the doctor ordered. Hating himself more than ever he heard his own voice say 'Ok What hospital is it? When is visiting time?'.

The hospice buildings were quite pleasant, from the outside. Yellow brick and grey metal fittings on the windows, and doors painted a fiery red. Now, with summer starting in earnest, the flower borders were starting to burst with colours that made the doors seem muted in comparison.

For some reason, Donnie wore the linen jacket that he had bought for a wedding the previous summer. Unworn since then, it fitted so well with the light blue cords and pale blue cotton shirt that he felt as if he were wearing a disguise. He had even adopted the hat he had bought to accompany the jacket - cream-coloured straw trilby with a wide curved brim.

Inside at the reception desk in the light and airy foyer, the receptionist smiled when he asked for Cecilia and called to a passing nurse.

'Are you going near Malvern?' The nurse nodded.

'Could you take Mr Stevens along to see Cecilia Thompson - she's in room 23.'

They walked along a pleasant glass-sided walkway, through hubs marked 'Ledbury' and 'Bromyard' to reach 'Malvern'.

'Are they battles?' Donnie pointed at the ward name, straining to remember his history lessons.

'W.I. branches, I think - I'm not sure, though. I mean, what do I know? I'm from Sierra Leone - I've never been out of London.' She laughed and Donnie wandered if you really could hear the sun in her voice. They stopped in front of room 23.

'Cecilia - you ok for a visitor?'

The voice from inside was surprisingly strong and, at her assent, the nurse ushered Donnie into the room, fussing over getting him a chair and seating him opposite a thin, drawn woman, fully dressed and sitting in an upright chair. She was attached to a drip, which was mounted on a wheeled stand positioned between a covered bed and her chair.

She was sitting side-on to the large glass doors which almost completely filled the wall opposite the door. They faced out onto a communal garden whose boundary was formed from the windows of other rooms.

At first glance, a casual onlooker would have said Cecilia was Indian - thin and brown with her long white hair gathered in a pony-tail behind her head. She was wearing a deep yellow sari over a red choli top. She had a white bindi mark on her forehead.

But a closer look would have revealed the blue-grey eyes and the wide cheekbones that would once have supported the fleshy cheeks of a westerner. Her expression was open and welcoming and she looked at Donnie with an eagerness that suggested she was still very much alive and interested in the world outside the hospice.

'Mr Stevens? Tommy said you have news of the Foundation?'

'Donnie please,' he said, standing and offering his hand. She ignored it, placing her own hands together between her breasts and bowing in the traditional Namaste.

He followed suit a little more clumsily, and raised his head in time to see a flicker of pain cross her face.

'I shouldn't really move my head too much - everything tends to spin.'

Donnie was suddenly aware of how ill she was.

'I don't want to...' he began.

'Now, sit down and tell me everything that has been going on while I have been away. I had assumed that the Foundation would have disappeared long ago.'

He sat down again on the hard plastic chair and found his eyes level with hers. The blue colour was faded, but the intelligence behind them made them seem piercing and brilliant.

'Mr Stevens - Donnie - you're not well yourself, I think - what is troubling you?'

'Nothing really - certainly compared with...' Donnie petered out, waving his hand vaguely at the drip.

'Well I have pancreatic cancer which has metastasised, as they say, to various other bits of me. It will soon release me from this life. You are much younger and must endure more years - so you must pay much more attention to your condition.'

'Shall we talk about the Foundation, Mrs Thompson - I don't want to tire you out.' Donnie felt he had had enough of this metaphysical claptrap, but he didn't want to be too rude to a dying woman. He would save his rudeness for Jake, Danu and Bryony.

'Cecilia, if you will. Go on, then - what are they up to?'

Donnie filled her in on the happenings as he knew them. When he got to the solicitor seeking to have her declared dead, she laughed heartily, until it turned into a wracking cough - he nearly called the nurse before she managed to stop.

'Oh dear - sorry if I frightened you, Donnie - he was nearly right after all - give it another couple of weeks. Is that Anthony? Is he still practicing?'

'Mr Rutter? Yes, that's him - I guess he is about your age.'

'He used to say we were engaged, you know - an eternity ago. It wasn't true - I never accepted his offer - but it kept him happy for a while. Oh dear - so many more things left undone.' She dropped his gaze and looked at the floor before carrying on.

'It always haunted me - things I had done or not done - that's the real meaning of Karma - you might even think they were trivial, but to die without making them right would mean - well Hindus - who I think have a better insight into the Divine than other religions - they say that having undone deeds causes you to be reincarnated - so you can put that right, you know. Buddhists too. You have to finish things. Only once they are finished can you rest, properly.' She paused before going on.

'You know how badly I reacted when Tommy went off with Sonja?'

'Surely you were entitled to feel hurt? Allow yourself that, at least.'

'The word 'entitled' is a significant one, Donald. There is no entitlement to expect other human beings to follow your wishes. There may be responsibilities, but no entitlement. What was I wanting from him? To lie and pretend he still loved me? Did I want him to live a life of falsehood and pretended care - well, perhaps I did and I paid for that by collapsing in some kind of vengeful emotional wreckage. I was spiteful, I was petty and I wanted to hurt him and Sonja by it, but the person I hurt most was myself.'

'So to die well, I needed to apologise to them. I wrote to them in America. Sadly, Sonja told me that they were divorced - though they do have four children, so there is a real monument to their love. I wanted to go to America to meet Sonja again - I told her I was dying and what I needed to do, but she was so kind. She told me that Tommy was living with his mother, over here, and I decided to tie up everything in India and come back to die in my homeland.'

'But now I see, there is a bit more to do. You must help me, Donnie.'

Donnie stood outside the hospice in the sunshine. The wind was cool, but the sun warmed him through the linen jacket and glinted off the screen of his phone. He squinted as he paged through the address book and the light was broken into colours by his eyelashes, distracting him from his task. Eventually he found the solicitor and waited as it rang three times.

'Rutter and Son, how may I help?' The woman - Julie, he remembered - was professional, but friendly - he marked her eight or nine out of ten. She could work for him anytime.

'Could I speak with Mr Rutter, please.'

'Who can I say is calling?'

'Donald Stevens - it is regarding Townend Farm. I'm sure Anthony will be interested in some news I have for him.' He deliberately used the solicitor's first name to ensure that she would, at least actually ask Rutter to take the call. He waited, listening to 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You' - who the hell sang that? Sounded like Dean Martin or someone like that. He was still puzzling at it when Rutter took the call.

'Good afternoon, Mr Stevens, what can I do for you?'

'Hello Mr Rutter - I wish I could speak to you in person, but I'm currently in London - in St Bridget's Hospice in Hackney.'

'You are in a hospice?' He could hear the genuine concern in Rutter's voice and was touched as he quickly corrected him.

'Only as a visitor - I have been talking to Cecilia Thompson.' He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

'I imagine you have heard of the petition I presented to have her declared dead?' The solicitor paused, waiting for his answer.

'Well you weren't far out, Mr Rutter - she does not have long.'

'I'm very sorry to hear that - genuinely, Mr Stevens.' Rutter seemed to be striving to convince him.

'Cecilia says that she would like to see you, Mr Rutter. Do you think you could make the journey down here?' There was a pause and Donnie could almost hear the workings of Rutter's mind and he calculated his position.

'I'm afraid that is not possible - I have many responsibilities and, alas, I will not have sufficient time available for several weeks.'

Donnie exhaled slowly. Rutter was still on the line and Donnie's thoughts seemed to take an agonisingly long time to form. Was he relieved that it was over? Was he annoyed that Rutter wouldn't be summoned? Donnie had no idea what he thought.

'Mr Stevens? Are you still there?' Rutter again sounded concerned. Something twisted inside Donnie's head. He had had enough.

'Mr Rutter - I'm sure you are a busy man - a man with some long-standing and lengthy interactions with your clients. You are, no doubt, familiar with the authorities' views on interim billing and use of client's funds - well, so am I. I am also in a position to examine the transactions on our clients bank accounts.'

There was a long silence on the line. Donnie waited. He had nothing else to do, even on a sunny Saturday.

'Could you give me your phone number, Mr Stevens. I will see what I can do.'

Cecilia signed the document and passed it to Tommy who signed in the space that said 'Witness One'. He passed it to Sonja who giggled nervously as she signed as witness two. Finally, the will was passed to Donnie to sign as the third witness, and he passed the completed will to Rutter. The solicitor examined the will minutely and then nodded before handing it back to Donnie.

Cecilia looked exhausted - more by the quantity of visitors than the actions of making her will. She had dictated the body of the will to Donnie, who had prepared it with Rutter, running it past his own solicitor, just to be sure. Three days - they could not have done it faster. Cecilia was sinking fast and the people crowding her room were obviously draining her. Donnie put the will in his pocket and addressed them all.

'Shall we leave Cecilia to recover? It has been a long session.'

'Thank you Donnie - thank you everyone. But, Anthony - would you stay with me for a little while?'

The solicitor looked surprised and a slight smile formed on his lips. As Donnie watched, he seemed to see ten years of frown lines fall from Anthony's face.

Donnie, Sonja and Tommy said their good-byes and walked out, keeping silent as they navigated the corridor to the hub of the hospice and out of the front door. A light rain was falling, so they clustered under the awning.

'Donnie - you haven't met Sonja.' Donnie nodded to the woman who, like Tommy, seemed to have a sixty-year old head on top of a twenty-year old body. He wondered if all Californians were like that. Sonja dispelled his thoughts by leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.

'Well, looks like the Foundation is safe now. I just need to go off and actually register the company properly before...' Donnie trailed off.

'Before she dies, right?' Tommy laughed.

'Don't be afraid of death,' Sonja said 'It comes to us all.'

Donnie aimed a tight smile at them and nodded, before heading off to the tube. It was his lunchtime and he had to make it back reasonably quickly.

He had already bought an off-the-shelf company that morning and all he had to do was put through a name change. Danu, Jake and Bryony were named as directors. Once the name change went through, the Indradhanu Foundation would be in the clear as owners of Townend farm, with Jake, Bryony and Danu as the directors of the Foundation.

Then he could go home, shut the door and forget all about them.

## **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

### **_Epilogue_**

###

_Between Paris and London, 2011_

Even though Ingrit was nearly six months pregnant, she wanted to see the Foundation, and Sunny in particular. She and Donnie were on the way to Donnie's parents, and it was more or less on the way.

Donnie had been emailing Sunny since he moved to Germany and, a couple of months after he married Ingrit, she had taken over the online contact with the girl. Now thirteen, Sunny was as enthusiastic about science as ever, and when she found out that Ingrit was from Ulm, Einstein's birthplace, Ingrit had become her mentor. Even if Ingrit's knowledge of maths and physics was a little weak, she was still a few pages ahead of the thirteen-year-old girl.

Donnie had been less enthusiastic about visiting the Foundation. Holger was now two and Donnie was a little concerned about the hygiene standards on the farm, but Ingrit was not - she had been brought up on a farm and been an enthusiastic helper with the animals. Though Donnie's family had moved to their farm when he was about ten, he had never adapted to the cows and pigs who always slightly intimidated him. In many ways he thought that his experiences with manure and septic tanks had given him his current obsession with cleanliness.

As the Eurostar sped under the English Channel, Holgar burbled as he slept and Ingrit was intent on her book. Donnie stared, unseeing, at a car magazine while he relived his last meeting with Cecilia.

Two days after the will had been signed, she asked him to call on her. She was weaker than before, but her eyes still blazed with life.

'Donnie - how are you? You seem very down. What is the matter?' She did not beat around the bush. He tried to brush off the show of personal concern by this woman he hardly knew. At the worst, he supposed, he might have to pretend to endure some platitudes about her Gods. But somehow he wondered if it might help to tell her, so he began with his marriage, and Sarah's disappointment with him. He was keen to press on past her move to Leeds, but she stopped him.

'Donnie - you are you, Sarah is Sarah. You're worth is not determined by anyone's opinion of you. It is your relation to the universe that matters.' He noticed that she didn't use the word 'God' with him - a concession to his atheism, he guessed.

He pressed on with his life story, interrupted from time to time by Cecilia who would interject some vapid truism. When he got to the mushrooms and his psychosis she tutted, and gave him an unneeded homily on how using drugs to short-circuit the communication with the 'higher consciousness' - whatever that was - always resulted in damage.

When he ground to a halt, having reached the current moment, she took his hand.

'Donnie - you must start living your own life - other people are important, but you are not theirs to command, nor are you their servant.'

Donnie would have pointed out that that was what he was trying to do, and that Cecilia was as bad as any of them. But he couldn't be rude to a dying woman. Damn it, he was too well brought up for that.

She took his hand and pressed it against the white bindi on her forehead. Her flesh was cold to the touch and surprised him - he had expected fever, somehow, not this cool, softness. She muttered something in Sanskrit or Hindi and pressed his hands between her breasts, then back to her forehead. He assumed it was some kind of blessing.

'Don't make the mistake of thinking you must find some great cause or object to life. Live your life, enjoy it, don't allow yourself to get old without enjoyment, without engagement.'

Donnie licked his lips, about to say something, but nothing would come. He leant forward and kissed Cecilia on the cheek.

'Thank you - I will do my best.'

'Don't do it for me. Do it for you.'

They sat on beanbags in the Earthship. It had been spruced up and the walls were a cheerful yellow that reflected the light in a mellow haze of sunbeams and motes. A newish-looking sound system pumped out reggae at low volume as they talked.

Ingrit was lodged in a two-seater bean bag with Sunny, who was imparting all her knowledge of the International Space Station, while Ingrit teased her from time to time about having a weightless poo or how to eat jelly and custard without short-circuiting the life-support.

Jake was telling Donnie how well the Foundation was doing, now that it was a bona fide company. Grayson's company did plenty of business with them - their profitable sideline in poetry tours and writing classes demanded organic food and, occasionally, meditation classes.

'He's still a bastard - and he'll probably be our M.P. at the next election - but business is business.' Jake's dreadlocks were gone - replaced by a tight braid with white beads, in the Jamaican style. He hadn't called Donnie 'man' once, nor had he smoked a joint - at least publicly.

'We've got quite a few regulars for the yurts in the bottom fields - nice people, mostly - they like a farm-type holiday with a bit of the spiritual side thrown in. The kids can be a pain sometimes - especially if they annoy the goats - never annoy a goat, is my advice.'

'Billy's working on the Sanders' farm now - running the camping field. Now and again they do a boot-camp thing and he's in his element, shouting at everyone and generally getting to kick city types up the arse.'

Bryony was sitting next to Jake, knitting what looked like a Tibetan-style hat, and keeping Holger amused with a ball of green wool. Donnie had seen the woollen hats in the farm shop on the way in - Danu had been on duty there with a young boy who looked about five. The boy was reading some kind of fairy-tale book with pop-up pictures of dinosaurs or dragons, as far as Donnie could make out. Danu had kissed Donnie enthusiastically, and Ingrit more respectfully. Danu dwarfed Ingrit in width as well as height - the kiss looking more like a mauling from a bear. Danu had not mentioned the young boy, though she had ruffled his hair a couple of times as she was chatting to Donnie and Ingrit. Each time she ruffled his hair, he smoothed it back down again, with quick impatient gestures.

As they left the shop Danu had said 'Don't forget to pop back before you leave.' Whether this was to him alone, or to Ingrit as well was uncertain, but she looked Donnie in the eyes with enough intensity to make him drop his gaze. In his mind there had never been anything serious in their relationship but he felt he had let her down somehow by dropping her so suddenly after the awful night of the solstice.

Donnie took advantage of a lull in Jake's catalogue of achievements to ask about the kid.

'Hari? He's Danu's little monster.' Bryony laughed.

'I thought that Danu couldn't...' Donnie started and Jake interrupted him.

'Bryony carried him for Danu.' He swiftly moved on to discuss the boy's dinosaur obsession - fuelled by Sunny and by Angel's younger boy, his accident-prone nature and his essential goodness of spirit - born on the cusp of Aquarius and Pisces, apparently.

When they were offered a second cup of herbal tea, Donnie thought it might be time to move - they had another hundred and twenty miles to do in the hire car before they got to his parents. He raised the subject of leaving and Ingrit reminded him of Danu.

'Well, go and talk to Danu - then we can leave.' She knew they had been lovers and her gaze was open and understanding. He nodded and left the Earthship, walking the brushed path through the farmhouse to the now-converted cottage. Danu was inside, serving a middle-aged couple. They paid for their eggs and goats-cheese and left, nodding to Donnie as he stood in the doorway.

'They don't look like campers?' he said, by way of a greeting. He felt embarrassed and tongue-tied for some reason.

'Locals - we get quite a few regulars from the executive estate.' She shrugged.

'It's lovely to see you. And doing so well - Ingrit looks lovely and I could eat the little lad, he's so gorgeous.'

'Holger', he said with a smile and looked at Hari, who was leafing through a picture book and doing his self-conscious best to ignore the adults. Danu came out from behind the scrubbed pine table that seemed to serve as a counter and put her arms around him. They kissed and she delicately inserted her tongue in his mouth - it still tasted of garlic and he was swept away on a stream of memory. But she pulled away, taking his hands from around her neck and holding them. He looked at her quizzically, not knowing what he should do or say. As ever, Danu was aware of the unspoken question that hung in the air between them.

'And I've got my beautiful Hari - another name for Vishnu, Mr Logic.'

'But Bryony was his biological mother?' Danu nodded and, before he could ask, she lowered her right hand and gently pushed it between his legs, moving closer to him so that his hands rested on her breasts.

'And his father was the only man who Bryony has made love with in the last ten years - made love - that's exactly right. Made another small bundle of love for our beautiful world.'

She pulled away from him again as he digested what he had already known. The boy was concentrating on his book and Donnie absorbed all he could of the way he looked, the way he traced the words on the page, the way he kept glancing at Danu and avoiding looking at the big stranger.

'Can I...?' he gestured at the pocket that contained his wallet. 'Perhaps I...?'

She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.

'Just pray for him, Mr Logic. Even if you don't believe in it - especially if you don't.' He nodded and turned to leave, but then turned back.

'Maybe if I could take a photograph?'

'Use your eyes, your brain, your spirit - better than any photograph.'

Another vapid bit of hippy truism, he thought but he held his tongue and walked back to the Earthship to gather up his own small clan for the journey.
