Eat Local Page 2

  Of course she was way out of his league. In fact Sebastian wasn’t even sure they played the same sports. Vanessa was classy, sophisticated and brimming with confidence.

  Sebastian was… not.

  He was just a puppy to her. A cute little mongrel she could pet as she passed him by and that was all he would ever be. How could he be anything else when every other guy in the place held down six-figure salaries, drove cars that cost five-figures, wore suits that cost four and pissed figures of eight all over the tiles for him to clean up?

  And Vanessa went for the big hitters too, mostly the foreign brokers who came over here on short-term contracts, stayed for a merger or two then disappeared into the sun with the fruits of their mouse clicking. How many guys had Sebastian seen Vanessa step out with during his time here? He didn’t know and he wasn’t keeping count but enough to conclude she must’ve been part of the bonus scheme.

  But then one night she got talking to Sebastian and not just chit-chatting either but really talking – about life, love and legacies. It was as if she was sounding him out, appraising him, bestowing a confidence upon him even. Sebastian was flattered and flustered all at once but he did his best not to show it. If growing up in an orphanage had taught him anything it was how to mask his true feelings with a pinch of bluff.

  “I was thinking about going away this weekend,” Vanessa had told him, to which Sebastian replied:

  “Me too,” which was true, he often thought about going away. He never actually did. No money. But he did think about it a lot.

  “Perhaps if your plans fall through you might consider coming with me?” Vanessa had then said.

  Sebastian was dumbstruck. Not an unusual state of affairs for him but it was enough for Vanessa to pick up on.

  “Of course, if you feel I’m a little too old for you…” she had started to say but Sebastian quickly reassured her on that front.

  “You’re not old at all. If anything I like ’em a bit older… er…” he said, whilst wondering where his runaway tongue was taking him now.

  “Then what?” Vanessa had asked.

  “I’m just er… a little bit strapped at the moment,” Sebastian had blushed. It was one thing to grab a quick pint after work, quite another to bankroll a whole weekend, especially the sort of weekend Vanessa was probably used to. Vanessa just laughed.

  “Oh you silly boy, the room’s all paid for. And the food and drink too. What do you think they give us these expense accounts for?”

  And so that was it: a weekend of unentitled luxury in the company of an attractive and experienced woman. What more could any self-disrespecting young man ask for? The bogs would still be here when he got back on Monday but for two divine days Sebastian was going to live it up as though they were his last on Earth.

  Vanessa had arranged to meet Sebastian at Christ’s Hospital at nine. He didn’t know why he couldn’t drive down with her from London but she insisted she had a few last minute jobs to wrap up first. Besides, the journey had been pleasurable enough. The city had given way to the suburbs just as day had given way to night, then the line had transported Sebastian away from civilisation altogether and into the countryside. He’d not seen a lot of the countryside in his short and sheltered life, just a single coach trip to a working farm when he was a kid. That had smelt funny and was cold, muddy and miserable and it had ruined his best (and only) pair of Adidas. Looking out from the station, it was much the same as he remembered.

  Sebastian turned his collar up to stop the chill from nipping his neck and hoped Vanessa would be here soon.

  CHAPTER 3

  Boniface was on his feet and filibustering before half of his colleagues even had their coats off.

  “… You don’t need me to tell you this. You all have long memories. You’ve seen what I’ve seen. This green and sceptred isle of ours is becoming grey: country estates are being turned into housing estates; national parks into retail parks; grass into glass; bridleways into motorways; and provincial parishes into sprawling urban jungles,” he said, pacing his way around the large circular table in the middle of the Thatchers’ country kitchen instead of taking a seat like everyone else. He paused for effect and then fixed his eyes on the Duke. “Nine million…”

  An audible groan attempted to cut Boniface off in his tracks but he was not to be denied.

  “… no no, let me speak. Nine million. That’s the total population of my territory and what, what’s yours?” he said, once again picking on the Duke from of the throng of frustrated faces now looking up at him.

  The Duke wondered how long Boniface had been working on his speech. It didn’t sound like an off-the-cuff introduction, especially not his opening gambit about the estates and motorways etc (someone had been thumbing his Thesaurus in the weeks leading up to their meeting) but the Duke refused to rise to Boniface’s provocation.

  “Peter, really? We meet only once every fifty years and you have striven to become a bore,” he said, hoping to take the wind out of the younger man’s sails but it wasn’t to be. Boniface had indeed been working on his patter for the last few weeks and he wasn’t about to be deflected from his train of thought just because no one else wanted to hear it.

  “Ten million,” Boniface said, answering his own question when it became clear the Duke wasn’t going to.

  “And I cherish each and every one of them,” the Duke replied, which was undeniable if a little sardonic.

  Somewhere behind Boniface, the old latch door swung open and in stepped the Thatcher’s first guest of the evening. Mr Chen kept his dark glasses on but he set the shotgun down by the door. It was cold outside and the wide open door let in a shock of cold air but no one noticed. Boniface went on pontificating, his colleagues went on shutting him down and the clock went on ticking behind the Duke’s level head.

  “Twenty minutes,” Chen whispered to the Duke, handing him a slip of paper on which he’d scribbled a summery of the call he’d just taken.

  “Very good,” the Duke replied, sending Chen and his shotgun back out into the cold night’s air with a nod towards the door. Boniface had barely taken the exchange in and yet it would prove to have a big impact on this evening’s proceedings.

  “I’m just stating the facts here,” Boniface glowered in a dour Scots brogue that got progressively more dour with every perceived slight.

  “As you see them,” Alice finally pipped in, irritated that under Coven rules all eight of them had an equal voice and yet here they all were having to listen to the same one over and over again.

  “As they are,” Boniface countered, glaring at the sweet old lady in front of him as if her hair were made of snakes. “Nine million and ten million,” he reminded everyone pointing to himself and the Duke. “Four million, eight million, six million,” he continued pointing in turn to Alice, Angel and Thomas in turn.

  “Now take away the first two numbers you thought of and add seven,” Angel said, much to Boniface’s irritation. He could argue the toss all night (and indeed would if need be) but mockery just confused him. Angel knew this was his Achille’s heel and enjoyed turning his screws.

  “Two and a half million,” Boniface said, returning to his pre-prepared text and singling out Henry. “And he doesn’t even feed!”

  This was more than Henry was prepared to tolerate. He glared back at his accuser and asked: “Is this why you think it’s okay to keep poaching on my territory?”

  “North of the border’s my territory. South of the border’s yours.”

  “Berwick’s in England,” Henry informed him.

  This was news to Boniface. The last time they’d had this disagreement Berwick had been in Scotland. When had it switched?

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, one squabble at a time and I believe I have the rank,” the Duke interrupted, finally bringing their proceedings back to some sense of order.

  But Boniface still hadn’t made his point and he paced the room like a caged beast while most of the others followed him with their eyes. But
not Alice. She returned to her knitting. She wasn’t really making anything and indeed wasn’t much of a knitter. When she was done she would simply have several balls of wool tangled together into a shapeless sheet that she’d throw onto the fire but it was a habit more than anything else. She did it because it gave her something to do with her hands and it helped her blend in. It was part of her look and part of her cover and she’d been doing it for so long now that it had become part of her identity. At least that’s how it felt to Alice.

  “Sixty million, Duke. Sixty million and counting,” Boniface declared. “Yet I remember when the population was just six million. And we were eight then and we’re eight now.”

  “Thinking of breeding are we, Peter?” the Duke smiled, taking a lead from Boniface by asking questions he already knew the answer to.

  “Oh no, I’m happy with the friends I’ve got, thank you very much,” Boniface snorted, failing to read the sarcasm in the Duke’s tone.

  “And so am I,” Alice snapped. “But I’d rather not get stuck with you all here tomorrow so get to the point.”

  Boniface paused for effect and waited for a hushed awe to descend across the room, or as close to it as he was likely to get.

  “Quotas,” he said, finally naming the elephant in the room.

  “Our survey says?” Angel flipped over a piece of paper she’d been holding for most of Boniface’s pre-amble. On it was written just one word:

  ‘QUOTAS’.

  Henry smirked. The Duke sighed. Thomas groaned. Alice grumbled. And Boniface glowered.

  Outside Chen was largely indifferent. He knew the discussion that was taking place without him off by heart. It was the same one they’d had the last time they’d met and the time before that too. In fact, as long as they’d been having these meetings, they’d been having this same argument.

  And yet nothing ever changed. So many words. Always the same outcome. Times were changing and yet they were not. Perhaps that was the problem. They were an endangered species. The time had come for them to disappear into the pages of history and yet a few of them continued to cling on – but only just. And only if they followed the rules.

  Once upon a time they’d hunted as lions. Now they snuck around like… well, like foxes really, Chen concluded, catching a glimpse of the Thatcher’s other trespasser as he sprinted past the barn and ducked into the stable, still hoping to bag a meal tonight.

  Chen would’ve happily opened the chicken coop and let the fox help himself but the fox was too cautious. He’d seen the gun and knew what they could do. He would bide his time. Strike only when it was safe. And live to see his burrow again at dawn.

  Chen couldn’t blame him for that. He’d been doing much the same thing for the past thousand years and it didn’t do to tinker with a winning formula. He wondered why Boniface felt compelled to.

  Two hundred yards away, 18 hugged the ground and barely dared to breathe. He lay in a little dip, behind a sprawling oak and bathed in a blanket of night. Not even the moon could see him where he lay but 18 couldn’t escape the paranoia that Chen could. He knew what these beings were capable of, despite never having been this close to one before in his life. All his knowledge had come from the endless briefings Mr Larousse had conducted back at basecamp. It had been hard not to smirk at the pious chaplain as he’d lectured them – 40 gruff hairy-arsed ex-special forces veterans – on subjects such as hellfire and immortal demons as if they were all true. Obviously it was nonsense, bogeymen and fairytales for the hard of thinking, but they were prepared to put up with Larousse’s twaddle because of what he was paying them. Most private armies would’ve had to have overthrown a small African nation to secure the sorts of wages Larousse’s ‘Synod’ was offering them. But 18 and his colleagues didn’t even have to do anything for it. A few bullshit patrols in the countryside at night, the occasion raid that always came up short and some fire and brimstone Sunday school sermons. It was money for old smoke and nary a shot fired in anger to duck from.

  It had all been plain sailing to early retirement for 18 until he’d checked out tonight’s target, a Chinese guy who’d gatecrashed a farm. And despite him standing out in the open, just a couple of hundred yards away andwearing a thin jacket and jeans, he showed no heat signal on the thermal image detector at all. Not even his hands. Not even his face. And why the hell was he wearing sunglasses at night?

  Oh shit!

  It wasn’t so much the realisation that their bogeymen existed that got 18 running but his own folly. Because he’d approached tonight’s target as he’d approached the last 50, in a less than professional manner. He’d parked up in the lane behind the farm, stamped and trampled his way through the brush and stood in the treeline humming the theme tune to Star Wars while he fished out his thermal image finder. Because as far as 18 was concerned, he was just here to take a few pictures of a couple of farmers and tick them off his list. Job done and back to base for cocoa and marshmallows. If he were reconnoitring a training camp in Helmand or a weapons factory in the Sudan then obviously he would’ve approached his target differently. But this was a farm, in Sussex, manned by a couple of tractor-deaf spud eaters. Exactly how much stealth was required?

  That had been his first mistake. Unbeknown to 18 he’d already made a second, and this one had been even more fatal than the first. By running away he’d missed the arrival of the Duke and the others and now they were inside, beyond the reach of his thermal image finder.

  All that 18 saw was Chen, walking the perimeter with a shotgun on his shoulder. And all he could hope for was that Chen did not see him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sebastian was lost in his own thoughts, most of which concerned just how fruity Vanessa was likely to be. She was at that age where she’d probably seen and done most things by now. And these power-broking city high-flyers were all into weird stuff; that was well known. At least that was what the lads on his cleaning crewreckoned: bondage, S&M, latex and orgies. And that was at the politer end of the spectrum. They were on a different wavelength to normal people. They needed more extreme thrills to get them going.

  Sebastian was no shrinking violet but he knew what he liked and knew what he didn’t. Some people might’ve said, “How do you know until you’ve tried it?” to which Sebastian would’ve replied, “I’ve never smacked my hand with a hammer but I suspect I wouldn’t like that either”.

  One of the guys had told him not to worry about it. If she wanted to try something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, all they had to do was agree a safety word beforehand – like Peaches or Treacle or Portillo or something. Then, instead of waking up the neighbours by shouting “Ahh, stop it! Stop it! I don’t like it!” which, in certain scenarios, could be misconstrued as, “I’m a bad boy, don’t stop and give it a twist as you jam it in,” all he had to do was say “Treacle” and she’d untie him, yank off the crocodile clips and go and wash her hands. It didn’t exactly fill Sebastian with confidence but at least he had a plan.

  “Who are you?” a voice from out of nowhere said to break his train of thought.

  Sebastian jumped out of his skin and almost swung a punch in the opposite direction.

  “Jesus! What the fuck are you doing creeping up on people like that? You looking for a smack in the gob or something?” he said to the eight and ten year old lads who were standing just behind him.

  “Waiting for someone, are you?” the ten-year-old asked.

  “Shows does it?” Sebastian replied.

  “You don’t live around here, do you?” the boy now observed.

  “Thank God for that,” said Sebastian, looking out across the car park at the moonlit fields and silent skeletal trees. “What a dump!” Anywhere with this little neon was clearly a shit-hole.

  The boys weren’t dressed for the countryside. They were more like the street kids Sebastian saw on his Hackney estate with their fake designer brands and pony sportswear and yet here they were, unaccompanied and unconcerned by the stranger in the midst. Perhaps t
hey were meeting Vanessa too?

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now boys?” Sebastian said, pointing to the station clock that had ticked past nine o’clock and was still going strong.

  “My bed time’s not till ten,” the older lad said.

  “Ten o’clock! That’s outrageous. I was never allowed to stay up till ten when I was your age,” Sebastian said, self-consciously inching his way towards middle age with statements like that.

  “What a dick!” the younger one quite rightly concluded.

  Without further ado, the older one introduced himself and his brother as Mick and Nick, commissars of Christ’s Hospital and all it encompassed. Mick further went on to explain how he and Nick were on the lam from their mum for a little family high jinx that had got out of hand.

  “Give us a quid,” Mick then said, as that seemed to be the way the conversation was drifting.

  “What for? For pushing your sister into a pond?” Sebastian asked, recapping the events of the preceding anecdote.

  “No, for sweets,” Mick clarified.

  “Ain’t your old man ever told you about talking to strangers?” Sebastian warned them.

  “Ain’t yours?” little Nick countered.

  “Weren’t there to tell me nothing. I grew up in an orphanage. Never even knew him,” Sebastian explained and a look of shared pain fell upon Mick’s face.

  “My dad’s in Afghanistan,” he said quietly, looking away into the middle distance. At that moment Sebastian saw he wore years he’d yet to live on his tiny shoulders.