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Authors: Stanley Donwood
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shirt and a strong smell of engine oil about him, pointed at my clothes and shook his head. I climbed into the back of the truck, ready to enjoy some more weather.
And me in my best suit, I said to myself. The truck got me back to town, more or less. Okay. I had to get back to my flat. I couldn’t do anything in this state. I needed a shower, new clothes, and perhaps something to eat. Scratch that. I needed a very large drink. The walk back up to the flat was pretty much unremitting agony, but I got home in the end. My place was still a tip, but in a sort of comforting way. It wasn’t unexpected, intriguing, or interesting. It didn’t ask me impossible questions or beat me up in remote fields. And for that I was deeply grateful.
Chapter 12
Seriously Bad News
By the time I felt okay it was nearly 6 P.M . The flat was okay, but it wasn’t any kind of place to think. That was one of the reasons why I had an office. And that’s where I went. I’d learnt one thing from the little guy with the emotionless voice and the big friends. So I dug out an umbrella. I bought some supplies on the way—whiskey, cigarettes, and I nipped in to the house of a guy I knew and picked up some cocaine.
I had a feeling that I might be needing it. But I only had time to do about five minutes’ thinking when I got down to the office, because the thought I had after five minutes was that I was supposed to meet the famous Stonehenge T-shirt at 7 P.M ., which was now about a quarter of an hour away. Okay. I looked at my furniture. I had a quick whiskey and locked the office again.
Saturday night is not a calm night anywhere in the world. So I was expecting it to be busy, even early in the evening, but it seemed to be pretty mellow in the Old Green Tree. There were a few old colonel types drinking in the public bar, and a couple talking quietly in the lounge. That was it. No Stonehenge T-shirt. I ordered a pint of lager and sat down in the lounge, trying not to overhear what the couple were talking about. Sounded pretty interesting until I realised they were discussing
EastEnders
.
I lit a cigarette and stared at the wall. And I carried on with the thinking I’d been intending to do. Okay. ScryTech and KHS were one and the same thing, I figured. Barry Eliot had something to do with it all, but I couldn’t tell what. The Charlcombe dig was not about archaeology, at least not in any normal sense. KHS were obviously withholding data and hiding finds. Okay. I decided that firstly I was going to call Karen Eliot and get her to tell me all about Barry. And I was going to go back up to Charlcombe with a flashlight, a camera, a fresh half-bottle of whiskey, and my wrap of Charlie.
I was going to check out those tunnels. I guessed that Saturday night was a good time to do it. Those ‘archaeologists’ would probably be far away, down the pub somewhere. The warning delivered by the smartly dressed bastards with their fucking shiny shoes was not an issue. So—I was fucked if I did anything. But the same applied if I didn’t.
I’d just got my mobile out to call Karen when a big fat guy wearing a beard and a slightly stained Stonehenge T-shirt came in. He went up to the bar and I heard him order a pint. Real ale. That figures, I thought. Then he turned around and walked straight towards me, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down. He took a massive swig of his ale. Without looking at me he took out a packet of tobacco and made a rollup. He lit it with a battered Zippo, took a huge drag, and exhaled the smoke in my face. Then his eyes met mine.
I sighed, ran my hands over my face, and said, “Panto. Very nice. Why an Ugly Sister though? You’d make a great Cinderella.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. For someone in as much trouble as you are, you’ve still got a sense of humour. Look after it. You might not have much else after Monday.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m very tired. I’ve been very busy. And it hasn’t been easy. Some big men
And me in my best suit, I said to myself. The truck got me back to town, more or less. Okay. I had to get back to my flat. I couldn’t do anything in this state. I needed a shower, new clothes, and perhaps something to eat. Scratch that. I needed a very large drink. The walk back up to the flat was pretty much unremitting agony, but I got home in the end. My place was still a tip, but in a sort of comforting way. It wasn’t unexpected, intriguing, or interesting. It didn’t ask me impossible questions or beat me up in remote fields. And for that I was deeply grateful.
Chapter 12
Seriously Bad News
By the time I felt okay it was nearly 6 P.M . The flat was okay, but it wasn’t any kind of place to think. That was one of the reasons why I had an office. And that’s where I went. I’d learnt one thing from the little guy with the emotionless voice and the big friends. So I dug out an umbrella. I bought some supplies on the way—whiskey, cigarettes, and I nipped in to the house of a guy I knew and picked up some cocaine.
I had a feeling that I might be needing it. But I only had time to do about five minutes’ thinking when I got down to the office, because the thought I had after five minutes was that I was supposed to meet the famous Stonehenge T-shirt at 7 P.M ., which was now about a quarter of an hour away. Okay. I looked at my furniture. I had a quick whiskey and locked the office again.
Saturday night is not a calm night anywhere in the world. So I was expecting it to be busy, even early in the evening, but it seemed to be pretty mellow in the Old Green Tree. There were a few old colonel types drinking in the public bar, and a couple talking quietly in the lounge. That was it. No Stonehenge T-shirt. I ordered a pint of lager and sat down in the lounge, trying not to overhear what the couple were talking about. Sounded pretty interesting until I realised they were discussing
EastEnders
.
I lit a cigarette and stared at the wall. And I carried on with the thinking I’d been intending to do. Okay. ScryTech and KHS were one and the same thing, I figured. Barry Eliot had something to do with it all, but I couldn’t tell what. The Charlcombe dig was not about archaeology, at least not in any normal sense. KHS were obviously withholding data and hiding finds. Okay. I decided that firstly I was going to call Karen Eliot and get her to tell me all about Barry. And I was going to go back up to Charlcombe with a flashlight, a camera, a fresh half-bottle of whiskey, and my wrap of Charlie.
I was going to check out those tunnels. I guessed that Saturday night was a good time to do it. Those ‘archaeologists’ would probably be far away, down the pub somewhere. The warning delivered by the smartly dressed bastards with their fucking shiny shoes was not an issue. So—I was fucked if I did anything. But the same applied if I didn’t.
I’d just got my mobile out to call Karen when a big fat guy wearing a beard and a slightly stained Stonehenge T-shirt came in. He went up to the bar and I heard him order a pint. Real ale. That figures, I thought. Then he turned around and walked straight towards me, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down. He took a massive swig of his ale. Without looking at me he took out a packet of tobacco and made a rollup. He lit it with a battered Zippo, took a huge drag, and exhaled the smoke in my face. Then his eyes met mine.
I sighed, ran my hands over my face, and said, “Panto. Very nice. Why an Ugly Sister though? You’d make a great Cinderella.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. For someone in as much trouble as you are, you’ve still got a sense of humour. Look after it. You might not have much else after Monday.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m very tired. I’ve been very busy. And it hasn’t been easy. Some big men
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