Sunlight streams through the closed cabin window and warms the dense air. A smell of burnt toast, sweet cannabis smoke, farts and diesel drifts up Robbo’s nostrils. He snorts and grumbles about vans in his sleep.
Something, somewhere creaks and the bilge pump comes to life, its mechanical groans reverberating through the wood panel floor.
“Oi, turn it down,” complains Robbo without opening his eyes.
The pump continues for a few seconds more. Robbo sits up, one side of his face pock marked from dirt on the floor, in his t-shirt and jeans. He takes a deep breath, wrinkles his nose, stretches his arms. Time to get up.
The door is pulled over but unlocked. Robbo emerges blearily onto deck and, after two unsuccessful attempts to step off forwards, grips hold of a rail with both hands and, legs shaking, steps backwards onto the bank.
The riverside is lined, at irregular intervals, with tree stumps. Beyond them is the fence ‘protecting Oxford’s nature’ along with warnings about electrocution. Robbo smiles. It’s as hard to get out of Oxford as it was to get in.
“You should have seen it in the spring. The river thick with willow seeds, the orchard white with blossom, the bees just waking – a bit like you old chap – and finding their way to the flowers with that warm, sleepy drone of theirs. It was beautiful,” the young man, in a freshly ironed blue-striped shirt and mustard coloured trousers, sits on a tree stump facing Robbo, “shame they cut down these trees. They said it would encourage the growth of smaller plants, because there would be more light but I’m not so sure old chap, I always liked mooring beneath the shade of a weeping willow tree. It made it so much more enjoyable to have a lie-in when you didn’t have the sun turning the place into an oven by nine o’clock.”
—
Philip Rumbelowe, clean shirt, baseball cap and a blue patch over his left eye, impatiently wheels his hospital chair across the car park. A nurse struggles to keep up.
“Where is it?” he barks at the nurse.
“By the charging points,” the nurse points vaguely across rows of cars, “it might need a top up.”
“Well get it plugged in then!”
The nurse walks over to a large red mobility scooter, attaches a charging cable and taps at their phone.
“What you doing?”
“Your friend, didn’t give his name, dropped it off. He was very insistent that I messaged him as soon as you were out.”
“I’ll sort him later. I said a blue one, not a fucking red one. I hate red!”
“Language, Mr Rumbelowe,” sighs the nurse resignedly for the fourth time that morning.
Mr Rumbelowe puts the chair brakes on and raises himself up to a standing position. The nurse starts walking back to help him but he waves them away and instead hobbles, with the aid of a stick, to the mobility scooter. Placing his stick in the scooter’s basket, leans on the dashboard and heaves himself into the driving seat.
“Where’s the keys?” he demands.
The nurse disconnects the charging cable, walks to the wheelchair and moves it to one side of the car park and leans it against a low brick wall. They walk back calmly, refusing to be hurried by Mr Rumbelowe’s urgent and anxious one-eyed glare, to the scooter.
“I just have to run through a few things with you. It’s a different model…”
“Better be, the amount I paid for it. Where’s the key?”
“…and check your eyesight is safe to drive. I’ve got the keys right here…”
“Gimme those,” Mr Rumbelowe snatches a pair of keys, on a thin metal ring, from the nurse’s hand and turns one of them in the ignition. He pulls back hard on the throttle and accelerates away across the car park, weaving past a delivery van and a young woman in a wheelchair.
—
“Ever catch anything?” asks Robbo.
“Oh, sometimes…” the young man’s voice trails off, “can catch all sorts here: pike, trout, sticklebacks, all part of nature’s grand design. Of course I usually throw them back. Only really special catches end up on a plate.”
The young man hands Robbo the fishing rod, “just going for a little Timmy Tinkle. If you get a bite and want to try and land it, there’s a net and bucket just behind you, or else just hold onto the line. I’ll be back very soon.”
Robbo calls after him, “watch out for the electric fence.”
“Ha ha,” the young man laughs out loud as he walks towards a straggly bush, “good point thank you, from one old chap to another.”
Robbo stares at the slack line and the float bobbing lazily in the water. Maybe he should pull it across the surface so the fish will think it’s a fly. But that just waggles the line about a bit. He steps back a couple of paces which does bring the float a little closer to the bank but that’s all. He fiddles with the reel, trying to work out how to release it.
“Did you never learn to fish, old chap? And I had you down as an angler man and boy too. It’s ninety per cent doing nothing you know. Ah well, never mind. They’re not biting today anyway. I reckon it’s too hot for the fish, not enough oxygen in the water so they’re sluggish and sleepy.”
“Could do with some rain,” observes Robbo.
“Too right chief, too right. We need to do our very best rain dance I think. Who’d have thought the rain gods would forget about their good ol’ friends in blighty?”
“Global warming innit. Same all over.”
“That it is,” the young man lets out a deep sigh, “too late to stop it now I’m afraid.”
He takes the fishing rod from Robbo and casts it out as far as he can, nearly all the way to the opposite bank.
“I have some friends,” the young man clears his throat and starts again, “I have some friends I’d like you to meet.”
Robbo frowns, “oh?”
“They should be on their way now. They’re a rum lot. It would be best if you don’t say much to them. But they can make you an offer, a transaction. I think,” he pauses as if to show he really is thinking, “I think you’ll like it. I hope you don’t mind, old chap.”
—
“‘No fucking eggs’, I said, ‘no fucking eggs.’ How many eggs is that, eh?”
“Sorry sir, Mr Rumbelowe, I’ll change that for you right away,” the young man in a brown ‘Tea4Thee’ apron hurries away with the offending plate.
Big Dave coughs.
“What’s your problem?” snaps Philip Rumbelowe, shuffling in his scooter’s seat.
“No problem.”
“You hungry? You’ll have to wait, we can’t both be eating at the same time, now can we, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“See if that gimp friend of Robertson’s shows up and we’ve both got our mouths full? Not going to be much of an interrogation that, is it, eh?”
“No, sir.”
The shopping centre doors swing open.
“Where’s Robbie Bobs got to? I thought he wanted to find Hank,” complains Matchbox.
“Hank’s gone,” explains Maureen, “now Robbie Bob’s gone after him. One by one we’re all going.”
“Oh God,” exclaims Petra, “I hate this place, God knows what you’ll breathe in. What are we doing here?”
“Message about Robbo,” half-explains Matchbox.
“Oh-oh, over there,” Maureen stops still, “Rumbelowe.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I can take this,” mutters Petra, more to herself than her friends, as she turns round and walks quickly back out of the door.
Mr Rumbelowe drives his scooter across the aisle and pulls up next to Maureen.
“I know where your boyfriend is, little woman. I can tell you if you like.”
“Where is he?” demands Maureen.
“And I can tell you if I like,” continues Mr Rumbelowe, slowing his voice down in response to the urgency in Maureen’s, “but why should I do that? Eh?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll know you’ve murdered him.”
“Hahaha, why would I do that then? He means nothing to me. If someone has murdered him,” Mr Rumbelowe pauses to look into Maureen’s frantic eyes, “then it wasn’t me.”
Maureen feels her mouth go dry and manages little more than a whisper, “is Hank dead?”
“I didn’t say that. I mean, he might be, he might not. I can tell you if you like.”
“Yes, tell.”
“First you tell me something. Where is that annoying little friend of yours, the none-too-handy, hand me a handout mister, Paul Robertson?”
Maureen closes her eyes and shakes her head, “don’t know.”
“What about you?” Mr Rumbelowe turns to Matchbox, “where has your old mate Robbo got to then?”
Matchbox also shakes his head and stares at the ground, unable to think of anything to say.
Maureen feels tears welling up. She keeps her eyes shut tight and shakes her head again, and again.
“Christ, woman,” laughs Mr Rumbelowe, “don’t have a fit now.”
“Hank is alive,” Maureen opens her wet eyes wide and yells at him, “you’ve kidnapped him haven’t you, you monster. You’ve got him locked up somewhere. Where is he?”
“Ha ha ha,” Mr Rumbelowe bellows, “so I’m a kidnapper now. Masterminded the whole op from my hospital bed, didn’t I. Must’ve used mind control. I’m clever like that. No you thick hag, I didn’t kidnap your retard boyfriend. You and him don’t have any money. What the fuck use would kidnapping him be? Eh?”
Maureen wipes her eyes and stares at him defiantly.
“Eh?” repeats Mr Rumbelowe.
“Well you might have taken him for your own depraved purposes,” Maureen suggests, “you are a pervert after all.”
Mr Rumbelowe shakes his head, “okay no info from you on Robertson, then no news from me on your retard boyfriend. He might be alive, he might be dead, you’ll just have to…”
Matchbox runs up to Mr Rumbelowe with fists clenched, “You’re a fucking bastard you fucking sick crippo …”
The tall man quickly sprints out of the shadows and grabs Matchbox’s arms, pinning them to his side. He drags him back, away from Mr Rumbelowe, and throws him to the ground in front of Maureen, “teach your dog some manners.”
“Thank you Dave,” sighs Mr Rumbelowe, wiping the bonnet of his scooter with a handkerchief, “seems like these sad sacks don’t care about poor old Hank. Whatever became of him, eh?”
Maureen kneels down to check on Matchbox who is curled up in a ball. She reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, and holds it to his face.
Mr Rumbelowe smiles at Matchbox and then yawns, “do give my regards to your friend. Me and Dave are off to get a proper fucking breakfast. Christ fucking knows, I’m hungry.”
He trundles off, Big Dave walking to one side, a step behind, towards the exit.
“Open your eyes, Matchbox.”
“No. Want to dream now.”
“Please,” whispers Maureen, the urgent pleading in her voice making the word sound like a squeaky hinge, “we need help. And you’ve got Tudor’s number in your phone.”
Matchbox opens one eye. His phone scans it and confirms his identity. Maureen hurriedly scrolls through the contact list and, even more hurriedly, taps in a message. Matchbox shuts his eyes as tight as they will go.
—
The young woman from yesterday walks along the riverside path, a few steps ahead of two bored looking young men in dinner suits, shirts open at their necks, black bow ties cast over their shoulders. They are carrying a hamper between them whilst swinging open wine bottles around with their free hands. A trail of red splashes follows them along the path.
“Hey guys,” the young man greets them, “good to see you, you beautiful people! Paul, these are my friends. You’ve already met Mademoiselle of course.”
“How’s it going you old hippy?” asks one of the friends, taking a swig from his wine bottle.
“All good. Bit of this, bit of that, bit of fishing.”
The other friend throws a can of beer at Robbo’s feet, “drink up old man, get yourself lubricated.”
“Paul here, as it turns out, is a connoisseur of lightly chilled rosè and bone dry whites. The perfect house guest for a summer evening,” explains the young man, “I’ll just fetch some from inside.”
He jumps hurriedly aboard the boat, causing it to rock from side to side. The young woman pulls out a bodhran, with a celtic cross tattooed onto its skin, from the folds of her dress and starts lightly slapping it.
“Party time?” asks the first friend hopefully.
“Not yet,” she demurs, “just tuning up, getting ready you know.”
The second friend looks at Robbo, “are you not drinking your beer old man?”
“Waiting for some cold wine.”
“Well, aren’t you the sophisticated one today,” the young woman laughs.
“Of course. He is a sophisticate after all,” interjects the young man, leaping back off the boat, “as we discovered last night. An evening of fine wine and refined botanical discussion was had by all.”
The young woman smirks. The two friends neck what’s left in their bottles and the first friend reaches into the hamper for more.
“So, you’ve come for a chat?” prompts the young man.
“We’ve brought supplies. More can follow,” responds the first friend and nods towards Robbo, “we only need him til Friday, well the small hours of Saturday. Should be a big party. Everyone having a good time.”
Robbo drinks his wine slowly, sipping carefully and self-consciously. And buying time to work out what is going on.
“Top up old chap? There you go. Plenty more where that came from.”
What do they need him for? The young woman stands up, slaps the bodhran with a slow, reggae-like beat and moves her hips in time. Her loose dress sways a split-second behind her body’s movement, just off the beat, and ruffles slightly in a breeze gusting down the river. Robbo can’t help but watch.
“Performance enhancer,” the second friend leans across in front of Robbo’s face and places a small tab on his lower lip, “don’t waste it.”
Robbo stares into the man’s eyes. A bright blue space, deep and shallow at the same time.
He shivers. ‘Danger here. Just do as you’re told.’
Robbo puts a finger to his lip and pushes the tab onto his tongue. He swallows it. The second friend winks at him and turns away.
“Another drink, chief?” the young man holds out a shallow bowl half-filled with dark red liquid towards Robbo.
“Red wine?”
“Yeah, that’s right chief.”
Robbo takes the bowl and tips some liquid into his mouth. It is thick and viscous, strange, slightly salty, slightly metallic. He struggles to swallow.
And coughs. A splatter of dark red spots on his trainers and the dry, withered grass.
The young man also drinks from the bowl, swallowing quickly before passing it to his friends, “you alright there, chief? Do you want some water?”
Robbo shakes his head and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear across his knuckles and one cheek. He reaches down for the can of beer at his feet and takes a swig.
“Down in one, down in one…” the young man starts chanting but nobody joins in and his voice trails off.
The young woman blows a whistle from between clenched teeth and starts drumming louder. She circles around Robbo, turning towards him and pointing down at him with the drumstick like a gun, then turning away. And then again beating faster. And faster still so the folds of her dress whip round in a wild arc before settling back into shape. She blows two sharp bursts on the whistle and jumps, feet wide apart and knees bent, back and then a leap forwards so close she almost kicks him.
“C’mon old man, move yourself,” commands the first friend.
The young man helps Robbo to his feet. He starts shuffling his shoulders back and forth.
“And your hips, c’mon move to the music. I thought you lot liked to boogie. Just pretend you’re in some shit club in Blackbird Leys, all dressed up in a cheap suit.”
The two friends laugh. The young woman lets out a long shrill on her whistle. Robbo tries to follow the beat.
The drumming slows then speeds up again. Slow, fast, slow, fast, slow.
“C’mon old man, you can catch up now, move those hips, swing that bum, c’mon get down.”
The woman stops circling Robbo. She stands facing him, an arm’s length away. She slows the beat right down and starts moving the bodhran towards him and then away from him, slapping it then offering it, slapping it then withdrawing it.
The two friends start to dance suggestively behind her, hands behind their heads, thrusting their pelvises. But their eyes are on Robbo. And they’re not smiling.
“C’mon old man, get those old hips going like you’re seventeen again, give that girl all you got. Bump’n’grind baby, bump’n’grind. In out in out.”
The woman continues to beat the drum, her eyes fixed on it, holding it out towards Robbo. Her hair wisps across her expressionless face.
“Be a mirror, old chap. Arms out, sway your hips and get loose.”
Everything is turning around. Or is it him that’s spinning? Like a top or that kaleidoscope Babs gave him for his birthday but he hadn’t wanted because it wasn’t new. That upset her. It had been hers when she was a child and she wanted him to have it.
Robbo tries to move his feet but they are rooted to the ground. His head is light like air but his bones are made of stone, his flesh just unresponsive meat. Vomit rushes up – hot, angry, tearing at his throat like razor blades, erupting through his mouth and dribbling out his nose. Now everything is swaying. Nothing is still. He buckles at the knees and crumples like an old chimney.
The dry ground beneath him gives out a plume of dirt. It hangs in the air for a second and sparkles. And calls down to him. He has to look up to find the voice although he doesn’t want to. The stars are people, all laughing with eyes gleaming like orbiting satellites. Their faces move and change places, but stay the same.