A Saturday Night with a Difference

By F.M. Collins

Thomas Fitzwalter, a young builder, is waiting in a site porta cabin to price a job when he is a witness to an assault on a young woman. Through the porta cabin window Thomas captures images of the assault with a camera he has with him. One of the images is of a charismatic American preacher, so called, who is standing in the doorway of the trailer angrily gesticulating at the woman.
The builder intervenes and a fight occurs in which he holds his own against the womans assailant but when a second thug appears on the scene - from out of the blue Thomas is overwhelmed by the bigger man. His quietus is approaching but he is saved from serious injury by the woman who takes off one of her shoes and using it club fashion batters the thug into submission.
The consequences that follow from the fight unfold against a backdrop of building site values, police corruption, religious hypocrisy, various human relationships and social events, all of which have a bearing on one of the most dramatic Saturday nights Thomas has ever experienced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481768399

F.M. Collins

I was born in Newport, Monmouthshire where I still live, although I spend a part of the year in North East England. I was a merchant seaman for ten years and travelled widely. On leaving the sea I worked in heavy industry and on large construction sites until retirement. During that time I gained a BA Honours Degree in Humanities from the Open University and a Post Grad. Diploma in Celto/Roman studies from the University of Wales.

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© 2013 by F.M. Collins. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/02/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6838-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6839-9 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 1

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‘O h Jesus bloody Christ!’ he yelled at the cat that was perched on top of the bedside radio, its head thrown back, scratching ferociously at the bell attached to its collar. Thomas Fitzwalter had put a bell around the cat’s neck for the express purpose of giving warning of its approach to the local bird population. But the murderous little bugger had found an alternative use for the bell, which was to come into the bedroom in the early morning and rattle it fit to wake the dead. Not fully awake but deeply annoyed at being woken at such an ungodly hour he swiped at the selfish animal but only succeeded in switching on the radio. ‘Oh Christ,’ he called out to the long dead magician as the cat leapt from the radio with a malicious scream before scuttling out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Thomas dragged himself out of bed with a sigh, turned off the radio and wearily followed in the animal’s wake. ‘If you ever wake me at this unearthly time again mister not one but all of your nine lives will be under threat. Understand? And why the hell didn’t you use the cat flap in the front door,’ he shouted at the animal who was waiting patiently for him to open the door to the kitchen. As the words left his lips, he remembered that only yesterday he had locked the flap because the tom-cat from across the road kept trying to muscle its way in as soon as the house was free of humans.

‘Sorry Henry,’ he mumbled through a yawn, ‘I’m not fully awake, I forgot to unlock it.’ Opening the kitchen door to the garden, he nonetheless gave his four legged alarm clock and friend, a gentle kick up the backside as it smoothed its way past him. Down the steps it ran, pausing only to throw a sneering glance at its so-called master before gliding through a hole in the privet hedge.

‘There’s a good boy Henry,’ he shouted after him, a satisfied smile spreading across his face as he watched the cat’s tail disappear through the hedge. Well that’s one lesson the well-fed killer had learnt, at least, he thought. He yawned and stretched widely as full consciousness clicked-in.

When he and his partner, Julia Simmons, and her cat, had first moved into the house, he had instructed the animal that gardens were to the front and back and lavatories to the right and left. This golden rule had been reinforced by dousing Henry with water should he see him doing in the gardens what he ought to be doing in the lavatories, and it appeared to have worked. Feeling for the most part he’d be better off in bed, he nonetheless remained on the patio, savouring the warmth of the early morning sun and the vernal splendour of their beautiful garden. Rising early did have its compensations, he thought, as he began breathing deeply of the morning air, all the time scanning his well ordered other Eden. In particular the winding pathway he’d laid from the patio to his garden shed filled him with a sense of a job well done.

He had laboured at this task for six days and nights and had rested on the seventh. From start to finish the work had filled him with that wonderful sense of self satisfaction that comes from working on a job—no matter how mundane—which improves the quality of one’s life. No two ways about it, his little plot of land looked good to behold. Hand, eye, intellect plus the will to achieve a goal had been in perfect harmony when working on the pathway. As if in sympathy with his growing sense of well being the myriad colours of the new laid path began to shimmer in the morning sunlight; and those rainbow colours added immeasurably to the richness of the pathway. He felt rightly pleased with his work.

Through the hedge Henry’s head suddenly reappeared. The cat looked left and right but disappointingly there were no juicy birds to catch, torment and kill. Having presumably finished its early morning toiletries, it nonchalantly re-entered its garden. In feline glee it bounded up the patio steps and began weaving in and out his legs, purring like an old traction engine. This was done perhaps in apology for getting him out of bed at such an early hour, but more likely because the greedy little bugger wanted food.

‘No work today Henry, consumatum est, and six days hard work is enough for anyone, as the God botherers know. It’s time for rest and relaxation, old pal.’ He bent down and gently gave the cat’s head a rub. ‘What thinkest thou of the pathway then, my little chickadee? And let me thank you for not leaving paw marks in the wet concrete at the bottom of the path.’

If the cat had words to speak it would have replied, that’s because I was locked in all bloody night.

Thomas was feeling more and more alive and in empathy with the warming of the day, even though he was barefoot and still dressed in tee shirt and pyjama bottoms. Henry began purring his indifference to the world of men or perhaps in frustration at not being dealt with promptly.

‘I’ll get you something in a minute Butch—as soon as I’ve tidied up.’ This promise, sincerely given, was not appreciated. Henry sniffed and walked haughtily away, tail in the air, and once more disappeared through the hole in the hedge. ‘Suit yer self,’ he called after it.

He began to gather up the few tools that in his exhausted state the night before he had left outside. Muttering at his remiss he carefully wiped them down, carried them to the garden shed and reverently placed them in the large wooden tool box he’d inherited from an uncle who had won a tidy sum on the lottery some time back. In less time than it had taken Bill’s boss to down his first lunchtime martini Bill had handed in his notice at the call centre where he worked and high tailed it to the south coast with wife and fortune and pursued a life that was affluent and more in tune with the natural rhythms of life.

Courtesy of a four foot tubular heater Thomas had installed and which operated via an outside thermostat, the shed was pleasantly warm when he entered. This warming indulgence was primarily for the germination of seeds, but also because it was a home from home, a place of refuge, a peaceful place, a place of solitude in which to think, to be lonely and therefore deserving of warmth. From the rain barrel, on one corner of the shed, he filled a watering can and tenderly doused the assorted rows of young plants and seed trays. A yawn overcame him and again he stretched expansively, feeling inside and out that wonderful sense of well being that comes with the joy of just being alive, even at such an ungodly hour. Barefooted he carefully made his way back to the patio parallel to the newly laid path, checking for imperfections, flicking bits of grass and debris to either side as he moved along it. On reaching the patio he turned and looked with pride at his handy work, the product of six days hard graft. In the sunshine it looked simply grand, even though the concrete was still a tad green at the top end. As he turned, his face screwed up in annoyance on seeing a pile of cat shit protruding from the soil at the base of a mock orange bush. It couldn’t have been Henry, he’d been in all night. Evidently his neighbours had given the same toiletry advice to their cats as he had given to Julia’s cat. ‘Damned, bloody cheek,’ he muttered, as he cleaned up the offending mess.

Washing his hands at the outside tap, he thought why not… He slipped on a pair of daps that he kept in the small green house on the patio and thinking there were definitely compensations to be had in rising early on such a beautiful day, even when forced to do so by a headstrong cat. The sun was up the sky a welcoming blue and the air, as yet, was unsullied by the orchestrated world of work. Closing his eyes and stretching widely he turned to the all conquering sun and began breathing deeply of the morning air.

Spring had arrived late this year but now it was truly here it looked magnificent dressed in motley, and buzzing with insect life. What more could anyone want? But then immediately the thought forcefully hit him, well there’s Julia for a start. He missed her deeply. For a minute or two he continued breathing deeply and rhythmically through the nose as he began stretching arms and flexing his fingers in limbering up.

Around him a blaze of colour stretched from one end of the garden to the other. On the patio, pots of daffodils, primulas and a variety of potted shrubs were cheerily saying hello and the subtle scent of apple blossom perfumed the air. In pride of place on the outside kitchen wall a plaque of Solis Invictis, the unconquerable sun was working assiduously in prolonging the sunny weather. He gave its nose a little rub to encourage it further. He smiled as he remembered the advice had come from a shop keeper on Hayling Island where they had bought the plaque. It was harmless nonsense he knew but no more nonsensical than the superstitious religious nonsense that is taught as factual to school kids in faith schools. Coincidence it might well have been but since he’d fixed the plaque to the wall, the cold, grey, rainy weather of the past few weeks had been banished, and there was now a definite hint of summer in the air. No better time to begin his Tai Chi exercises, he decided.

It was the last day of April, the cruellest of months, as some would have it, and nature, as evidenced by his garden, was showing its better profile. In the air was the delicate scent of apple blossom, and even more uplifting, the dawn chorus was still in full voice. Suddenly, and as if in empathy with his increasing joie de vivre, a blackbird, perched high up in a nearby ash tree began singing its lyrical territorial song. He was in the middle of performing a pat the tiger movement when his progress was arrested by the innate musical ability of the bird, a veritable Mozart among song birds. For this moment alone, he thought, it was well worth the inconvenience of being woken up by an egocentric cat. Entranced, he remained still, eyes closed, his breathing controlled and rhythmic, all senses filled by the bird’s melodic song. A feeling of deep inner peace was beginning to settle around him.

From one end of the garden to the other, silent messengers of spring, handmaidens of the goddess the ancient Greeks called Demeter, the Romans, Proserpina, and present day Catholics, Our Lady, proclaimed the coming of summer. At the bottom of the garden an early flowering clematis, its buds swollen in expectation of a plethora of dark blue blossoms was also proudly saluting the life giving sun. And lemon-yellow primroses from the four corners of the garden were smiling their welcome to the reviving world.

He recommenced the kata and pivoted on the ball of the right foot and in so doing brushed an overlapping branch of one of the apple trees. Immediately a richer whiff of the sweet and subtle scent caressed his nose. ‘Umm,’ he sighed. Then focussing on the action, he half-turned to strike, parry and punch an imaginary foe. Against an east facing fence a forsythia bush caught his eye. He again paused in the kata and for a few moments marvelled at its bright yellow colours. This glorious herald of Nature’s rebirth seemed to be raising its golden arms in a silent salutation to its progenitor, Solis Invictis.

Suddenly and in mid note the blackbird’s song stopped. Something had frightened the bird, yet nothing seemed untoward. But whatever had frightened the bird was close, going by the way it had screeched out its staccato warning to the world, losing control of its bowels as it fled. Julia’s bloody cat no doubt, he angrily thought, peering in annoyance at the hole in the privet hedge. His concentration was well and truly broken. Even so there was no sign of Henry, well none that he could see, but as if in sync with the blackbird’s warning call all was changed. From somewhere out on the road a motor bike engine roared into life, the purring of its idling speed changing to an ear painful decibel level as it accelerated away. The soft and gentle fabric of the day was rent. He shook his head as if to reinstate the calm, but the moment had passed, lost and gone forever with yesterday’s 13.7 billion years, give or take the odd six or ten thousand.

In a jangle of competing sounds the world of work was rapidly waking up. A car door slammed and somewhere a dog barked as the clink and clatter of milk bottles on doorstep disturbed its slumbers. It was an incongruous clinking clanking sound in many ways, an echo of a different age, of different cultural values, of a time before the triumph of the supermarket. A cacophony of new noises jarred his ears: a screech of aluminium ladders being dragged along a roof-rack; the protesting grind of a rusted door being opened; the clamour and clash of metal on metal; the rasping whirr of the driver’s door sliding shut; and finally, a diesel engine coughing and spluttering into life, leaving, no doubt, as always, a black noxious pall in its wake. The jobbing builder from across the road, Jonny Larkin was preparing for another day or perhaps a half day, it was Saturday after all.

For the briefest of moments as the blackbird sang, it had seemed to him as if he had passed through a tear in the space/time continuum to a gentler, more tranquil world. Gone was the mad, mad, present world which seems to be getting madder by the minute, to be replaced by Arcadia in all its mythic glory: man in harmony with nature, all evil and Cliff Richard, banished from the face of the earth. It had been one of those sublime moments of calm, when a deeper sense of self is realised, when the destructive values of the orchestrated world of work have no meaning, and little, if anything exists outside one’s own immediate, subjective universe. But like a frost before sunshine its passing was brief. The mundane world of the here and now returned as quickly as the more ephemeral world of the senses dissolved into thin air. Life goes on, bills had to be paid and money earned. He returned to the kitchen, filled the kettle and prepared his breakfast.

Chapter 2

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U nlike many of their friends, who seemed at best to be ferociously paddling just to stay afloat in this world of unregulated market forces, Thomas and his partner Julia were doing quite well. Their money problems, in the main, were relatively modest. Mortgage repayments were under control, and other outstanding debts were nothing more than the everyday bills that most everyone has to face, excluding of course the Royal Family, premier football stars and the millionaire members of the Bullingdon Club now masquerading as politicians in the coalition government.

Despite a few temporary setbacks their way of life was good, to the point of being described by their friends as idyllic. In the short term however they were being buffeted by this present period of orchestrated economic turbulence. This situation was exacerbated by the purchase of their new home and the costs incurred in moving the ten miles from their town centre rented flat to their present location on the outskirts of the town. When they had reached that crucial point in the buying and selling of a house, known as the exchange of contracts, both Julia and her mate had the distinct impression they were being ripped off by bank, solicitors and the estate agent. Then on top of it all, just after moving in, unforeseen but essential structural and maintenance jobs had come to light that Thomas had noted but underestimated and then ignored in their desire to push the deal through. The net result was that the repairs required immediate attention and a further outflow of cash.

They had both grasped the nettle: Thomas handling the essential structural work and Julia had jumped at the chance to earn extra cash by temporarily moving to Newcastle for a month or so, to help organise the settling in of a foreign IT company. Reading the information about the firm Thomas thought they were the type of firm that relocate to regions of Britain to take advantage of low wage rates and so called, flexible labour laws, before upping sticks and moving off as soon as subsidies run out.

Julia had assured him that it didn’t seem to be the case with this firm. ‘I know it was only a telephone interview Fitz but they sounded genuine to me over the phone. And don’t forget they’re paying my accommodation bills while I’m up there.’

‘Okay honey bun,’ he said to his best pal as she boarded the train, ‘let’s hope they’re as good as they sound. Oh and by the way, thanks for this morning, it was wonderful.’

‘So were you, my darling,’ she called as the train pulled away.

While Julia was busy earning the cash in Newcastle Thomas made good progress in the refurbishment of their new home. He had fitted a new roof, rewired the house, fitted a new bathroom and had stripped and redecorated all the rooms. With the decks now clear it was time to start seriously looking for paid work. The sun was shining in a brilliant blue sky and the outside thermometer read eighteen degrees. There was a definite hint of summer in the air. If he were honest he felt like taking a week off to recharge the batteries so to speak but needs must when the devil drives. It was time to throw his hat back in the ring, irrespective of his belief that the natural state of man was leisure and not unremitting work. And on such a sunny day the thought of leaving his reconstructed paradise in search of the ogre work, filled him with the same dread as the Pope must feel when he has to give up Bordeaux superieur for vin ordinaire during Lent. But unlike the multi millionaire, parasitic cleric they had to pay their own way in life.

He yawned deeply as Hypnos the god of sleep and restful dreams began calling him back to bed. He could so easily have succumbed to the dulcet call, but stoically he shook himself awake then popped the last piece of bagel into his mouth. As the flavours caressed his tongue, he sighed with pleasure. Whole grain bagels spread with Marmite, washed down with a mug of Earl Grey tea were essential prerequisites for the good life, as far as he was concerned.

As he was putting breakfast dishes into the sink the name Hennessy came to mind. It was a name from the recent past, a name that resonated with the word, work. Paddy Hennessy was the name of a foreman he had worked with on a job in Portsmouth, a year since. If Paddy was still with Tremanes there was a good possibility of work. As soon as he showered he determined to give the firm a ring. Tremanes was a construction firm that built houses on a grand scale but they also had a line in marquees and display stands for temporary exhibitions of one sort or another. It was only the other day when waiting at traffic lights near the leisure centre that he saw a display board in an adjacent field proudly proclaiming that Tremanes were the builders of the large housing development. In an adjacent field a large marquee had been erected which the sign proclaimed was also part of their brief. The size of the marquee was such that he had wondered at the time what on earth it was going to be used for. A quick estimation of its size before the lights changed suggested that it was as tall as if not taller than a circus Big Top, but its base much longer.

Towelling himself down after his shower, one of the presenters on the Today programme began an interview with a Mr. Maurice Proto, who was described as, an American charismatic preacher, over here on an outreach mission from one of America’s richest, Pentecostal mega churches. Their headquarters was in the preacher’s home State of Louisiana, or Mississippi—he didn’t catch which one.

‘Charismatic? My arse, puss,’ he said to the cat, who’d returned via its front door cat flap and had come upstairs to enquire why its breakfast wasn’t ready. ‘Charlatan more like it puss, the man’s nothing less than a bloody charlatan.’ This observation was lost on the animal who was more concerned with its stomach. ‘He’s just another rip-off artist, by the sound of him, Henry, and he seems set on filling the minds of the incredulous, the naive and the desperate, with superstitious nonsense while no doubt picking their pockets of hard earned cash. It’s typical of religionists, everywhere Henry. Most of them are in it for their own economic and sexual well being. Stay well away from them they’re up to no good old son.’

Continuing his tirade he turned off the radio picked up the cat and carried him to the stairs. ‘Honestly Henry, it’s always the way with these people who possess the gift of the gab. And the gullible will always be prey to unscrupulous, smooth tongued buggers like Mr. Proto. And by the way—your breath stinks.’

In the kitchen he opened a tin of a noxious smelling, fishy mixture an operation that never failed to make him heave. The pungent aroma, so much the cause of retching immediately made him pull sharply away, but to Henry it was as nectar to the gods. The black and white beast began purring like an old traction engine. ‘Bloody hell, Henry, how the hell can you eat this muck. It’s no wonder your breath stinks.’ His nose wrinkled up in distaste as he spooned the glutinous mess into the bowl.

Henry gave his temporary master one of those contemptuous looks he was so good at, as if to say, because it’s what you bloody well buy me, that’s why then plunged head first into the foul smelling, gelatinous muck. For a few moments Thomas watched as the cat slurped its breakfast down, all the while purring in that low contented manner that cats have when they’re at ease and totally engrossed in feeding their faces. No doubt, when replete the little sadist, would, if allowed, go straight off in search of small animals to capture, torture or torment. ‘Am I right, or am I right,’ he admonished the well fed killer. The cat gave him another of his sly cat looks, before insouciantly turning back to its breakfast.

Sensing the animal’s mood, or to be more accurate, knowing its nature, he said with just a tinge of anger, ‘Just for today Henry—just make it one day without killing. Do you hear? And keep a closer watch on the cat flap. I don’t want that stinking bloody tom cat from across the road, coming in here again. I’ve enough to put up with you. And please I don’t want any more birds or mice brought into the house. No more presents please, I’ve got plenty of food in the freezer. ‘The cat didn’t even bother to look up. Shaking his head in frustration, Thomas went to the living room, picked up the landline and dialled. A raucous Irish voice answered at ear bursting volume: ‘Tremanes, Hennessey speaking, and what can I do for you?’

‘Is that you Paddy,’ he gingerly replied, ready to pull away should he speak at the same volume.

‘Indeed it is and who’s that?’

‘It’s Thomas Fitzwalter, remember me? Fitz.’

‘Who,’ the foreman shouted down the line before switching the phone to the other ear.

‘I worked with you about a year ago in Portsmouth on that boat exhibition. Remember? Thomas Fitzwalter.’ There was a short pause which had Thomas thinking he’d hung up. ‘Hello? Are you still there Paddy?’

‘Well I’ll go to the foot of the mountain at Knock—Tommy the bookworm. Well, well, well, you’d never believe it Fitz, but you’re the very man I was thinking of just a minute ago—telepathy, or what sunshine? You’re the answer to a poor man’s prayers that you are. As you know Fitz I’m a man who all his life has given of his best for the general good and now finds himself let down by one and all. They’ve sent me the wrong stage fittings, and the wrong seating as well. You just wouldn’t believe it lad? And I’ve had the divil’s own job in changing them. And now to top it all, the client is telling me they’re the wrong type. And finally, to put the mockers on it, the firm who were going to run in the electrical supplies—the bastards that they are—have pulled out, gone through, bankrupt, or some such bloody excuse. Badcess to the lot of them, that’s what I say, badcess, badcess, badcess!’

Thomas was somewhat confused by the amount of information booming down the line and could not think of a word to say in response, not that there was any chance of him doing so, the foreman was off on a roll and nothing was going to stop him.

‘But now then Fitz boy, I’ve a feeling the corner’s turned and lady luck is once again smiling down on me. The moment you revealed yer self, just then, I felt the load I’ve been labouring under these last months, beginning to lift from my aching shoulders. But then lad, here am I talking of myself and my problems when I should be listening to what you have to say. How’re they hanging Tommy lad? Still got the ol’ head buried in fusty ol’ books, I suspect. Well it’s time to be getting it out and thinking of life. I’ve a little bit of work to be putting your way.’

Before he could express his thanks, the foreman ploughed on: ‘Now I don’t want any lectures on life and purpose, my philosophical friend; and, don’t be giving me, its summer time and I don’t work in summer time, or any of that old crap. That used to be your way on the Portsmouth job if I remember rightly. And it’s not full summer time anyway. The weather still has a touch of spring about it. Just a straight yes or no will do. But now then, come to think of it, you must be after work if you’re ringing me. It’s not just a social call, now is it lad? What’s up Fitz? Has the tax man caught up with you at last? Is that it?’

A chink in the wall of words opened up: ‘No it’s not, me garrulous, story spinning Irish saviour’, he said, mimicking the accent of his forefathers, ‘not yet at least, and if you’ll just let me say a few words. I am looking for paid work. What have you got? How long’s it for?’

‘Ah be Jasus, I knew when I got outta bed this morning that things were on the up. I could feel it in me water, lad, that I could. Now don’t you be fretting about time. You can get this job done, put a couple of bob in the bank and have time aplenty to while away time in thinking of this or that or the other—though I don’t know how that fine young woman of yours puts up with it.’

‘It’s called mutual respect, Patrick, a concept I’m sure you’d endorse.’

‘I’ll take yer word on that, young man, but to the matter in hand: the serious business. What I want done is for you to finish the electrical work in a large marquee or pavilion—take yer pick—and a few adjacent annexes. It’s nothing much, an addition to the housing project I’ve got going. It’s one of those things we get from time to time from an American concern, but there’s no need to worry you with that, the job itself is all important. For Tremanes they’re little jobs, sprats to catch mackerels, a couple of weeks work, nothing more. But they’re nice little payers Fitz; I can assure you of that. As I’ve already said I’ve got a big housing project ongoing in the next field and they’ve lumbered me with this big tent would you believe? Now I know you’re capable of doing the work, so is it a deal lad? It’s nothing much, but I could do with someone taking it off me hands. The people, who were going to do it, as I’ve said, are busted, gone through, or did a runner from their creditors, more the like. All I know is they’ve let me down—the no good bastards that they are—and it’s got to be finished by next Saturday or sooner. They started the work Fitz so there’s not that much left to do. There’s a mains cable to be run in from the substation on site to a little brick annex which houses the distribution boards. The annex is adjacent to the marquee, but you’ll get a better idea of what I’m saying when you come down to the site and have a look at it yourself lad. Then all you have to do is tidy up the loose ends. So what say you kind sir? Are we on?’

‘I certainly am Pat,’ he replied his cup overflowing.

‘Excellent, Fitz lad, excellent, it’s the positive side of your nature coming to the fore and that’s what I like in a man, and I know you’ll not let me down, now would you lad?’ he emphasised as he gave the stress ball he kept on his desk a very firm squeeze.

‘You know me well enough Patrick to know I wouldn’t do that. I’ll get the job done on time, no problem.’

‘Excellent Fitz, excellent, that’s what I wanted to hear.’ The Irishman then gave succinct instructions as to where the site was regardless of Thomas’s attempt to tell him he knew where it was.

‘I know the area Patrick, Julia and I often go swimming at the leisure centre and we often… ‘He didn’t get any further. Paddy had a site meeting to attend and he hadn’t yet had breakfast and his stomach was calling.

‘Sorry to cut you short lad but time is pressing. Anyway you’ll see some porta cabins at the far end of the field. I’m in the one with a red facia over the doorway. If I’m not there when you arrive, make yer self at home, I won’t be long. I’ve a meeting on the housing site at nine, so it shouldn’t be more than an hour—I hope. There again, you know how these things drag on, so just put your feet up for a while and chill out. There’s coffee and tea on the desk and milk in the fridge. We’ll talk about the price when we meet up, and I’ve a drop of Irish waiting to sweeten the craic.’

Thomas replaced the receiver, as happy as the Queen is when receiving her annual £35m plus salary. He made a mental note to avoid the whiskey until the price had been agreed. Back in the kitchen as he was washing up the few breakfast bits and pieces Henry jumped onto the bench and began peering intently out of the window.

‘What could be finer than this, Henry old chum,’ he said rubbing its head, ‘or need I ask?’ he added in frustration on seeing what the animal was peering at. A small host of sparrows, tits, starlings and finches were squabbling for precedence at the bird table and adjacent feeders. In murderous expectation the amoral killer demanded to be let out. ‘Not yet, puss—not until the birds have fed.’

Picking up its dish and a box of Tasty Nibbles he lured him into the hallway, shook a few Nibbles into the dish, placed it on the floor then closed the door and returned to the window to watch a colourful garden scene that never failed to please. Working in the garden had always been a labour of love for Thomas as it was for his partner. And at this time of year especially, with the returning warmth and the myriad colours of Spring, he felt a strong empathy with his plot of land, their fertile little Eden, the provider of solace in a world which more and more, appeared to be succumbing to illusory ideas. And the radio interview on the Today program with the evangelical preacher had reinforced his belief that the absurd superstition of religion, so much the precursor of wars, irrational fears and cruelty—the basest of human characteristics—was one of the primary causes of man’s unhappiness.

Fredrick the Great of Prussia an historical character for whom he had a sneaking regard—despite the man’s propensity for absolutism—had got it right when he insisted that all religions are based on similar absurd superstitions. Religion in all its forms is a Hydra blocking the road to human happiness. It always has been and always will be, inimical to well ordered societies everywhere, and that was an absolute conviction of his. At that moment when the excesses of religion were colouring his thinking a very colourful member of the crow family, a Jay, landed on the bird table, putting the smaller birds to flight. It was a magnificent specimen, and the sight of it there in all its colourful glory thrilled him to the core. It had been a long while since it had visited the garden and he had assumed it had flown to pastures new, away from the encroaching town. But there it was in all its vibrant splendour. Julia would be delighted with the news. He sent a quick text to her.

Wonderful, immediately came back. Very busy up here, I’ll ring tonight. Take care love.

A movement to the right of the bird table caught his eye. He grabbed a small pair of binoculars, always kept near the window, and peered at the viburnum bush. Flattened to the ground, at the shrub’s base and edging slowly forward and with a precision that was gripping to watch, barely ruffling the overlong grass and gearing itself to attack was Henry the well fed killer. The cunning little bugger must have gone out through the cat flap and nipped round the back. He rapped on the window, scaring the Jay into flight.

‘Henry you little bugger,’ he shouted as he ran onto the patio. Gathering a handful of gravel he threw it at the cat. With a speed and grace that was dazzling and a joy to watch the cat in one flowing movement, leapt for an overhanging branch of an Ash tree. In seconds the animal had scampered up the tree, almost to the point where the blackbird had begun its lyrical serenade. It glared down in wide eyed innocence at the human with the strange ways. Thomas sighed in frustration, and vowed to himself that as soon as he got back from seeing Paddy, he would trim the lower greenery of the viburnum and lop off the part of the Ash branch that overhung their garden. It would be done with regret but if the birds were to have any chance of survival when visiting the table it had to be done. Or perhaps an easier option would be to move the table nearer the patio. But there again he thought Henry the well fed killer, on hot summer days, often dozed on the patio. ‘Have to give it more thought,’ he said out loud and to no one in particular.

Once again, in the space of little over an hour, an idyllic peaceful moment had been shattered by the cold reality of nature in all its indifferent glory. There were no snakes in the garden to tempt an inquisitive Eve but there was a black and white cat with no sense of human morality, thank goodness. He glanced at his watch, it was time to be off; the inevitable could no longer be delayed. His Ford Transit van was being serviced so it was either a taxi or shank’s pony. The sun was shining, the gods were in their heaven, Henry in his tree, so why not leg it? He wasn’t pushed for time and it was no more than three miles at the most—a piece of cake. He picked up the post that had just then been deposited on the mat, sifted through them, placed those of interest on the hallway table, to be gone through in greater detail on his return, and the junk mail in the recycle box. Without further ado he set off, a young man at the top of his game, fit, full of the joys of spring and wondering if it was possible to fit a cat with a muzzle.

Chapter 3

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I n just a few strides he was in top gear, walking briskly, giving full rein to shank’s pony. On such pleasurable occasions as walking, he would invariably give thought to the myriad problems that plague mankind. It was an improbable activity that he nonetheless found therapeutic as well as speeding up the miles. In twenty minutes he had covered, by his estimation, around a mile, and he was well into solving the perennial social and political problems of Africa. For reasons of puff and gravity his pace slowed as he climbed primrose hill, a snaking, one in six gradient, that was a gear crunching struggle for his van but a piece of cake for shank’s pony. As he crested the top he’d solved the problem of world hunger by redistributing the European food-mountains to the third world and abolishing all subsidies to European farmers. Half way down the hill he had nigh on eradicated the scourge of war by closing down the armament industries worldwide.

Nearing the outskirts of the Nelson Mandela estate, he was coasting comfortably when he was brought up short by the sound of his name being called: ‘Tommy! Fitz! What’s the rush? Long time no see.’

Crossing the road toward him was a familiar face that went back to when he had first arrived in the town. ‘Jack, boy! Well I’ll