The Circle Now Is Made

By Mac Fletcher

Following a run-in with his ex-wife’s creditors, Greg Alison decides to uproot. Quickly! Morally and physically bankrupt, all he has is his faithful old dog, a wedge of banknotes he’s squirreled away, and the use of a tiny caravan to live in. In the midst of winter.

He plans to do little other than eat, sleep, and drink the days away in the idyllic Cornish village he chances upon, though a serendipitous opportunity to see his children in Southern France proves too good to resist.

The trip doesn’t work out as well as he’d like, and all is not as it should be on his return to Trevelly, forcing him to make himself scarce… Again.

Greg uses the change of location as an opportunity to chase some hidden treasure, and with the help of new friends - Wyndham in Bromyard, and Eddy King in Trevelly - he uncovers much more than he bargained for.

Completing the circle, however, proves a more complex and difficult task than he anticipated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398448346

Mac Fletcher

Mac enjoyed telling (tall) stories from an early age, so little has changed there. “I just hope I’m a little more convincing these days.” A lifetime South-Staffordshire man, his chosen genre at the outset was the thriller…for no reason other than he loves reading them. Writing developed from there—English Language and Literature being by far his best subjects. Besides writing, one of Mac’s passions is the narrowboat he and his wife, Jean, fitted out from a basic shell. Moving at walking speed on a mode of transport introduced in the seventeen-hundreds is Mac’s idea of heaven and—he comments—“might also convey how much of a go-getter I am.” Along with gardening, most of his interests are in some way creative: painting, computer graphics, photography…all sedentary enough to pursue while out on his boat. He tries to stay active—“or at least flexible,” he adds—by swimming, towpath cycling and just plain walking.

Book preview

The Circle Now Is Made

Mac Fletcher

Austin Macauley Publishers

The Circle Now Is Made

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

The Circle Now Is Made: Synopsis

Prologue

AE Housman

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

About the Author

Mac enjoyed telling (tall) stories from an early age, so little has changed there.

I just hope I’m a little more convincing these days.

A lifetime South-Staffordshire man, his chosen genre at the outset was the thriller…for no reason other than he loves reading them. Writing developed from there—English Language and Literature being by far his best subjects.

Besides writing, one of Mac’s passions is the narrowboat he and his wife, Jean, fitted out from a basic shell. Moving at walking speed on a mode of transport introduced in the seventeen-hundreds is Mac’s idea of heaven and—he comments—might also convey how much of a go-getter I am.

Along with gardening, most of his interests are in some way creative: painting, computer graphics, photography…all sedentary enough to pursue while out on his boat. He tries to stay active—or at least flexible, he adds—by swimming, towpath cycling and just plain walking.

Dedication

To Dave C for the title and lyrics which form the skeleton of the tale.

To my wife, Jean, of course.

To all my Friday Night Friends, past, present and future (I hope).

Copyright Information ©

Mac Fletcher 2023

The right of Mac Fletcher to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398448339 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398448346 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

The title of the book—and the lyrics from which it is taken—were used by the kind permission of Dave Cartwright, a popular Midlands Folk Singer/Songwriter and author, to whom I’m very grateful. Sadly, Dave died suddenly in 2015, and for what it’s worth, it’s to Dave that this

book is dedicated.

Dance of the Seasons © Hare Songs

The Circle Now Is Made: Synopsis

Following a run-in with his ex-wife’s creditors, Greg Alison decides to uproot. Quickly, and in the midst of winter! Morally and physically bankrupt, all he has is his faithful dog, a wedge of notes he’s managed to squirrel away, and a tourer caravan to live in.

He plans to do little other than eat, sleep and drink the days away for a while in an idyllic Cornish village, though a chance opportunity to see his children in Southern France proves too good to miss.

The trip doesn’t work out as he’d like, and all is not as it seems on his return to Trevelly…forcing him to make himself scarce.

Again.

Greg uses the change of location as an opportunity to chase some Pirate’s Gold, and with the help of new friends—Wyndham in Bromyard, and Eddy King in Trevelly—he uncovers much more than he’s bargained for.

Closing the circle he’s opened proves a more intricate and difficult task than he’s encountered…

Prologue

I saw your final warning, but it’s not my debt. It’s my ex-wife you need to see. Greg Alison snatched his arm from the man’s grasp and continued across the deserted multi-storey to his car. He was cold, tired and hungry, and didn’t feel a fraction of the indifference his body language suggested. Before Greg reached the door though, the stranger had stepped in front of him.

I get the money—I leave you alone! The man’s sallow complexion took on an olive-grey hue in the dimly lit area.

"You leave me alone, full stop!" Greg was about to grab the man and drive him against a support pillar. Hard. The man had other ideas. Within a heartbeat, he held a knife beneath Greg’s chin.

Bastard! Still unbowed, Greg prepared to bring up his right arm to knock the man and his knife clear. But suddenly he froze. Sightless for a second, he felt a stabbing pain in his right shoulder. His body recoiled as if from a giant sting, every muscle convulsing, contracting—almost to snapping point. A powerful arm reached from behind and locked across his throat.

That was just a tweak, he said slowly. When will you have the money?

Greg was barely conscious. He could only play for time as he felt a trickle of blood creeping from the knife point. Friday, I swear. He knew they meant business but strained to tilt his head away from the pressure of the tip. His captor countered with more pressure behind his neck.

"I can’t sort anything unless you let me go. He could smell the foul breath of the men as he waited for the worst. Let me go!"

Tomorrow! The accent sounded Arabic, Moorish even. "You have money for tomorrow night or really suffer!"

I can’t get it for… The pressure on the tip increased.

"You have no choice! We collect tomorrow night at seven. Your home!"

Suddenly, the pain eased. The men released him and walked away. Half turning, the knife-man called over his shoulder.

"We know who your kids are…We know where your kids are."

The threat, in essence, disturbed Greg but didn’t unduly alarm him: the children had relocated to France with their mother some weeks earlier. Still aching and sickened from the effect of the shock, Greg lost no time clearing the town before pulling onto a busy all-night service station. He’d no need for fuel. Just somewhere open and light enough to use his phone safely.

Sam, does the offer still stand?

Christ, Greg, what a time to call—scared the shit out of us. Sam paused to calm his anxious wife. It’s ok, Jo…your little brother.

Hi, Jo, Greg had no time for pleasantries. Can I still have it, Sam? A few weeks might be enough.

"Take it and keep it—and the Off-Roader; the whole outfit wouldn’t fetch a grand these days. Keep ’em if they’ll help you back on course, though I’m buggered if I’d want to join you in mid-winter."

I’ll need to collect them first thing. About six.

"Everything’s ready as promised, and I’ll leave the doors unlocked. Please don’t wake us again mate—and get some rest yourself!"

"Ring me…please!" cut in Jo anxiously as the call ended.

AE Housman

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills?

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

Chapter One

It was dark and cold as Greg lumbered wearily down the drive, away from the magnificent building that had been home. As he reached the iron gates, he turned and gazed watery-eyed at the house. His house. The house he’d supervised throughout its renovation: brick by brick; wall by wall; tile by tile.

It felt painfully ironic that the home he’d been so proud to restore, the crystallisation of past success, should be taken from him by people who knew nothing of its character. Before chaining the gates for the last time, he gazed at the swimming pool; the scene of so much enjoyment on warm summer evenings of the irretrievable past. Now it stood, grey and desolate, its frozen surface covered by a layer of winter debris.

Gone, probably forever, was the sort of opulence that had allowed him to fuel the boiler through half of December, just so he could take a dip on Christmas day. Forever lost, the laughter of the children he worshipped, and his wife’s caring smile as she’d watched them during long days of summers past.

Greg turned away as the meridian of his dreams dissolved into the past. He walked from the gates to his waiting car, his sole possessions waiting humbly at the kerb-side. An old Volvo estate now represented the fruits of a lifetime’s work. Seated on the passenger side was his only remaining friend, a greying old setter. Puzzled and dejected, he looked vaguely hopeful that Greg might yet call him back to the house, where he could continue his decline in comfort and dignity. He saw no reason for disruption of any kind.

Sorry, Red—not to be. No time for sentimentality, I’m afraid. Urgency entered Greg’s voice as he climbed into the car and started up, a farewell nod to his past as he pulled away. We can’t hang about any more, mate; it’s no longer the leisurely escape I planned. Not until we’ve put some miles between us and Callow Hill anyway.

Greg had been a highly successful businessman; his success, as is often the case, proving to be his downfall. On leaving college, after a spell on building sites, he’d set up in domestic security. Business had boomed and his company expanded rapidly, venturing into energy conservation and upgrades. All seemed well until a temporary respite in the recession had enabled punters to move rather than renovate, resulting in a brief but apocalyptic slump in home improvements. This, coupled with near-saturation of a highly competitive market, had left him overmanned. The inevitable happened, and Greg was made bankrupt—paradoxically, by the upturn he’d so anxiously awaited. Sad as he’d been at the time, he’d consoled himself that he still had his home and family. But that was to change also…

***

The pair had been travelling about ten minutes when Greg became aware that the car behind had been following since he’d set out. He put it down to paranoia, but decided to see what happened when he signalled to turn left onto a side lane. Sure enough, the car slowed dramatically and dropped well back…but followed him into the lane.

Hold tight, Red, he said, another sharp left soon, but you’ll know where we are by then, I reckon. He almost felt Red’s reaction as the ageing dog realised, even in darkness, he was on familiar ground. After three hundred yards or so, whilst the following vehicle was eclipsed by hedges, Greg turned off the lights, swung hard left through a wide gateway and onto a farm track, slowing enough to see the pursuing headlights zoom past.

Whether he was chasing us or not, Red, we’ve lost him. Just a quick stop now; no time for your usual fuss from Jo and Sam, I’m afraid.

The estate car coasted and bumped the last fifty yards to a huge barn of a garage. Greg left the headlights on while he opened the double doors, at which the ageing dog became all but delirious.

Just wait there, Red, it’s not quite what you’re expecting.

Moments later, a jaded Frontera emerged from the garage, behind it the cause of Red’s excitement. Yes, you’re right about the caravan, but no Bev and Shaun I’m afraid; they’re miles away in France. What a memory you have.

Within minutes, the Volvo had changed places with the pair’s new home, and they were on their way back down the track.

Phew, gasped Greg, suddenly feeling much less conspicuous as he paused at the gates before re-joining the lane. He took a bag of loose biscuits from a holdall beside him and tossed a handful to Red. Time for a treat, I reckon. I’ll just take a livener. Greg had never been a heavy drinker, but since the onset of his current situation, he’d used drink as an instant fix. Most days he could take or leave it, though often he took it anyway, and some days it made life easier; smoothed the rough edges.

Today’s a real rough edge day, Red!

Having realised this wasn’t to be one of the holidays of old, Red just got on with the biscuits. Before Greg became established, he and his wife had been glad to borrow the caravan from his sister. The only way we could manage time off in Cornwall those days, Red, but there’s just us two now. Greg forced a smile. But not forever, I’m sure; I’m just glad she didn’t do a runner with you as well.

The support Clare had shown while work was flooding in had evaporated like a summer shower the instant it stopped. To Greg’s dismay, she’d upped and left within months of the collapse of his business. His children, Shaun and Beverly, both in their mid-teens, had been given to their mother’s care. As soon as all was finalised, Clare had remarried and moved to France—so swiftly as to arouse Greg’s suspicions regarding the length of her relationship. He’d not wanted to cause any aggravation over the children though, accepting that they’d been offered a much better home than he could now provide.

The recent discovery that his wife had run up massive debts after the collapse of his business hadn’t, in light of her recent behaviour, entirely surprised him. Clare had obviously chalked up a massive slate in preparation for the split she was engineering. The fact that the credit companies had sold the debts on to an unscrupulous recovery agency hadn’t helped Greg though—it had in fact been the final straw.

He bit hard on his lip, trying desperately to grasp what course to follow. The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn’t going to give up. He kidded himself he’d take a short break in the south west somewhere (in January?) and get his thoughts together.

We’ll end up living really rough if the cash runs out, Red. Not cut out to become nomads are we—surviving on our wits from day to day? He reached down and stroked the dog, his bony frame by now cramped into the foot-well to gain full benefit from the heater.

We’ll become hunter-gatherers, Greg joked, and he caught his own grinning reflection in the mirror. The intense green eyes looked tired, hollow; the dark, lean features gaunter and more drawn.

Before joining the south-bound motorway, Greg stopped at a convenience store to stock up with immediate requirements: food supplies—largely pre-packaged—and alcohol. He’d earmarked several all-year sites in Cornwall, and planned to do little more than eat, sleep and drink, for a few days at least. Although the caravan wasn’t designed for winter use, it incorporated high-capacity batteries and two large gas bottles; so, he felt confident of surviving the elements within the snug interior. In some respects, Greg was looking forward to a spell of seclusion; in spite of his words, he’d often fancied living with nature—though his only experiences had been with family during summertime.

We’ve only been on the road a short while and I feel tired already; some survivor. Greg yawned as he approached a service stop near Tewkesbury. Detest these places, but we’d better eat before we start the journey proper, Red.

The meal was aptly uninspiring: burgers the consistency of damp chipboard languished beside cardboard chips, bearing little similarity to the colourful posters lining the walls. The coffee was barely tepid, bitter to the point that he attacked it warily whilst taking in the grey skyline through a sleet-flecked window. He forced a grin as he considered how much simpler he could make matters by blowing his brains out there and then. Had Red not been so dependent on him, he half-joked, he might well have done. Nevertheless, Greg vowed to keep going: somewhere he felt, a long way short of suicide, was an end to the gloom.

***

A veil of slushy rain obscured the windscreen for much of the journey, persuading Greg to stop at the first half-decent site he reached. He stopped before turning off the main road to call his sister to let her know all was well.

Greg, I’m glad you called, said Jo immediately. I heard you drive away this morning, but after you’d gone, another vehicle came up the drive. We saw the lights and thought it might be you coming back for something, but it was a black BMW. Diesel, I’d say from the sound.

Don’t know anyone with a black Beamer. Did they knock? asked Greg anxiously.

No, Sam was on his way down when they drove away again—any ideas?

No, lied Greg, did you get the reg?

Why would you want the registration if you’ve no idea who it could have been?

Just curious.

"It was YV12CVT. I made a note of it."

No idea who that could be; probably someone who thought your drive was a side lane. Greg feigned only passing interest. Or after scrap maybe.

Cheek!

Greg laughed. Things OK otherwise?

Yes, just worried about you…How are you? Not that you’ll tell me.

I’m good too, looking forward to plenty of reading and walking. Speak soon.

"Watch you do. Your mobile’s always turned off when I call. Please let us know if you need us. Jo sounded emotional, despite attempts not to. Bye, love."

Bye, speak soon I promise. Greg stored the vehicle number in his mobile the instant he disengaged, and sighed deeply.

Not long after his stop, he was pleasantly surprised to find a suitable spot, long before any he’d punched in his satnav: a small farm field, sheltered by a horseshoe of pines; picturesque, despite its winter starkness. The farmer smiled almost apologetically as he pocketed Greg’s money, surprisingly accustomed to winter campers it seemed. Although it offered little in the way of facilities, Greg liked the site: its frugality, he felt, was less likely to attract the encumbrance of fellow campers.

Not many customers about this time of year? he said as the farmer directed him to an area where he was least likely to sink.

Naa. One or two ’ere up till Christmas week.

Greg gulped. So, there are others as daft or desperate as me.

Hell bent on pleasure, obviously, he joked, though the remark went unnoticed.

After he’d connected the gas and left the kettle on low, Greg took Red for a walk round the site—the old dog being grateful of exercise after the journey. The field was pulpy from successive downpours, and Red’s paws plopped deeply into the mud as he loped clumsily back to the caravan.

This is the life for us, Red, said Greg tongue in cheek as he pulled the door to against the elements. Peace and quiet at last, eh? He made himself and the dog a drink of Bovril each, then sat pensively, his hands cupped around the tin mug for comfort from the clammy chill.

You look after the van tonight while I pop out for a quick pint. Then home to bed—ok, mate?

Red almost nodded approval as he licked Greg’s face, placing a large soggy paw on his shoulder as he did so. Greg gently pushed the fussy dog away and sat back, his deep, troubled eyes betraying a flicker of sadness. Not since he’d lost both parents whilst still at college could Greg remember feeling so alone, and in the dim solitude of the caravan, he silently wept.

***

At the same time, two hundred miles away in the library of a large country house in Herefordshire, sat Anne McCaffrey—not ten miles from the services Greg had stopped at hours earlier. She too sat and puzzled over the future. A large (to be less kind, fat) cat sat on her lap as she alternated her gaze along one wall of the library.

I wonder if anyone will collect them now? she said to the cat. Predictably, the cat said nothing.

Anne McCaffrey had just seen the final vestiges of hope for her future disintegrate: her husband, whom she’d nursed for many years had recently died. Worse still, she’d that hour received news that her lover of half a lifetime was also dead. The only hope she’d clung to throughout her wasted life was that one day she’d be free to marry Lawson Penmaric. Now, he too was gone, and the only tangible remains of their relationship were the pictures lining the library wall.

Probably worthless. She sighed and stroked the cat again. "But at least we have them until they’re collected by the man Lawson promised. If ever he comes."

Anne McCaffrey was a good-looking woman. Her smooth skin belied her advanced years. Until recent events, she’d never wanted to look or feel old; suddenly, she’d no wish to grow even an hour older.

Resigned to its inevitability, her huge hazel eyes, tired and sunken, stared sadly around as she waited quietly for death to come. She sighed again and nodded to her cat. Perhaps, we can hang on until they’re collected.

***

At around the same time in Tavistock, Devon, Tammy—blue-eyed, blonde, angelic Tammy—was leaving an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting, pleasantly fulfilled with her progress thus far.

Sure, you won’t have a quick coffee? asked ‘Goldie,’ a new member, though several years older.

Positive. Tammy laughed, completely unfazed by Goldie’s persistence. You know my situation. I’ve shared it enough times.

"Look, I know you have a boyfriend and you’re expecting him back one of the days. From what you’ve said, I doubt if he’ll come back, but all I’m asking for is a quick chat in the Costa over the road. I’d really welcome some ideas from another newish member."

It’s suggested we stick to same-gender meetings for one-on-one situations, said Tammy, her hair backlit by street lighting. She grinned as she paused to light a cigarette in a shop arcade. I’m glad we don’t have to give these up as well.

I know. Thanks. Goldie took a cigarette from Tammy’s packet. "One day at a time, and one thing at a time as far as I’m concerned. Look, get this straight, I haven’t shared it yet, Tammy, but I’m gay, for Christ’s sake. I’m not after your body, just a chat and a little help with my recovery."

Tammy smiled again. "Just a quick latte then; I won’t repeat anything you tell me and I’m sure you’ll do likewise. As for coming out, that’s your business too. You’ll tell ’em yourself when you’re ready I’m sure…Marigold!"

Goldie laughed as they crossed the road, pleased to have made a new friend. The pair were to take coffee on several occasions after that.

***

Who’s that? Greg woke with a start. He thought he heard a noise outside, though it was still pitch black as he cleared a misted window.

Not a soul in sight…probably a fox. Shaking from cold, he lit the gas fire and dithered while he unearthed some heavy bath towels, one of which he laid one over Red, and the rest over his bed.

Tidy situation for a bloke who made a fortune from home security and heat conservation, he muttered to Red, seemingly oblivious to the chill as he lay curled on the floor. We’ll need heavier gear for this game.

Greg could have managed an hotel, or stayed at his sister’s house for a while even, but he’d stubbornly refused: the only friend he felt he could completely trust was Red. Apart from diminished faith, he was possessed with a gloomy guilt complex, feeling he’d somehow betrayed the loyalty of staff and colleagues. In fact, there’d been