Thanks Peter God – Chapter Six
Chapter Six
- in which two men talk in the back of a car and then smoke drugs.
Dysnomia
Peter Stone didn’t sleep well that night. He lay awake until the early hours of the morning despite going to bed before midnight. Not even two wanks helped him get sleepy enough to drift off. He just lay there, getting more tired, more anxious, more weary. He slept eventually of course; no matter what, exhaustion will override a human body and Peter had exhausted himself the day before. He woke with a start at 7am feeling spaced out and panicked. He had been dreaming about being lost in a maze of rooms; people’s living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, all endlessly weaving together, from one house to the next through a series of doors and doorways. He’d found himself suddenly faced with a sleeping person on a bed in front of him or a family watching television, all of them turning to face him emotionlessly as he stumbled backwards and sought another way through. He was trying to get home.
He got up and felt no better. He put on some shorts, a t-shirt and his running shoes and went out the door as quickly as he could. He ran for twenty minutes. It felt as if someone had pounded the front of his thighs with a tenderising hammer. His belly felt like a separate weight strapped on to the front of him. His throat burned acid.
Back at the house he showered and then felt faint as he towelled himself dry. It was half seven now and he did not have much time. He had to choose between picking out the right clothes to wear or having an adequate breakfast. He could always eat later; he went with clothing. He wanted to dress plainly and unobtrusively but not without some semblance of style and not without looking like he had money to spend. No one liked to give money to those who looked like they needed it. He picked out a black vest and then over that a very black shirt with a stand up collar, almost like a priest’s. He put on straight dark grey pants, almost as thick as denim but not quite. Sensible shoes and a jacket finished him off. He looked in the mirror and regarded himself. He thought he looked casual but then confident enough to be casual – not sloppy or hurried.
It was too late to eat anything now so he put a roll of mints in his pocket and then made sure he had his phone on him (silent), his keys and his iPod shuffle. He placed them all strategically so they would not spoil the line and flow of the clothing. He put on a little scent, not too much, just enough to appear even more casual and confident. He had nothing else to do and now it was too early so he sat down and watched Tinga Tinga Tales on CBeebies.
At exactly eight o’clock he heard the car pull up. Exactly eight o’clock, not a second before or later, like it had appeared out of nowhere. Peter stood up and looked out of the window. The car was not a familiar model. It was large, smooth bodied but hefty and a dark, dark green. He thought it looked familiar and he did not know why. He went to the door and then out to meet the car.
He expected for a man in a chauffeur’s outfit to step out of the front seat and doff his cap at him. The windows were tinted dark enough that he could see nothing through the front windscreen. When nothing happened immediately he walked to the side of the car and saw that all the windows were like this. Now Peter expected that there would be an electronic hushed buzz as a window glided down but instead there was a soft click and the back door of the car that was facing onto the pavement swung slightly open. Peter stood for a moment to think; to actually, properly think. Was this a good idea? Was this a chance for an experience and some money or was it the first of a series of mistakes which would bring him misfortune and misery? He decided he really should have thought about that earlier than this point and walked towards the open door.
He put his hand on the side of the door; he could not see any visible handle. As he did he got a small static shock. He pulled the door back and a voice from within the car said:
“Get in.”
It was a deep, deep voice and even with those two words betrayed a strangeness of accent and intonation. Peter lowered himself onto a spacious and comfortable back seat. The car was exactly the right temperature. It smelt new. He squinted to see and then realised that didn’t help in the dark. The door swung itself shut.
“Your eyes will adjust to the light in a few seconds. I have an eye condition I have to be cautious about.”
“Okay,” Peter said back to what he presumed was Ratcliffe Fowler and then felt dumb for saying something so normal and inexpressive.
They sat in silence as Peter’s eyes adjusted. It was probably only for a matter of seconds but it could also have been an eternity. Peter suddenly felt stoned again but only the worst parts. Time dilated and he felt spaced out and paranoid. He did his best not to break out into a sweat. As his eyes got used to the darkness of the car he realised it wasn’t really that dark after all. It was a very bright and clear day outside and that had made it seem worse. He looked down for a few seconds but then just gave in and looked straight ahead and tried to make sense of Ratcliffe Fowler.
Fowler was a big man. He was sat across from Peter, upright and rigid, knees bent at a right angle and hands neatly placed over his knee caps. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit with a very faint pinstripe. He wore a dark shirt, colour indeterminable in this light and a tie as dark and green as the car’s bodywork. His neck flowed over his shirt collar slightly and from his jowls upwards his head was an elegant triangle interrupted by a black, ridged trilby. His skin was olive toned and behind his big, mirrored sunglasses Peter could not tell if Ratcliffe Fowler may be Chinese or not. Or Japanese. Or Korean. Peter found it difficult to tell between them.
Ratcliffe Fowler’s big, wet lips moved like two slugs surprised into slovenly action. As his face moved his skin looked like paper soaked in water which then dried instantly as he ceased movement. Peter could not help but stare at him as he spoke, gripped and senseless. Peter’s mouth could have been hanging open as he gawped, for all he knew.
“I was made aware of your skills, Mr Stone,” Fowler said, rumbling,” and as you seem willing to consider applying them to my problem I would be happy to compensate you for your time and effort.”
Peter became a little more aware of himself, as if a grip was slackened.
“Who made you aware of me?” he asked.
“Mr Faithless recommended you.”
“Oh. Yes. Mr Faithless.”
“Was he wrong to do so?”
Peter knew the name from somewhere. Faithless.
“No,” Peter said, taking himself in hand and focussing. He straightened up and rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward a little. “You mentioned two things I’m interested in. Your missing daughter and your money. Tell me about them both.” Peter felt proud of himself for this. He felt like he was in a movie now.
“I understand you do not have children at present Mr Stone. Is that correct?”
“That’s… correct.”
“I don’t think that there is any adequate way that a parent can express the boundless terror that fills their life from the moment their offspring comes into the world. It is a terror perfectly balanced with love but a terror nonetheless, a sheer, heart-rending fear of everything in the world that is not you and your child. Anything but those two things are a threat.”
Ratcliffe Fowler put his hand up to his mouth and made a fist as he coughed into it. The movement was so swift that Peter instinctively jerked back.
“Ahughh!!”
Peter watched the massive hand relocate itself to the massive knee.
“I have taken pains over the years to keep my terror at bay. I am fortunate – maybe not fortunate, maybe just disciplined enough – to have the means to keep it at bay. The means to keep at bay the solid, tangible threats. That I have been able to do without exception. The more insipid threats, those that come from within the family unit or from within one’s child themself; those have been more difficult.”
Another cough shook the car and startled Peter. The coughs reminded Peter that every time Ratcliffe Fowler spoke he could feel himself fall into an almost paralysed state, unable to generate enough coherent effort to move. There was an odd sing song rhythm to Fowler’s speech, as if he was imitating someone, or as if he had only recently learned to speak after a lifetime of silence.
“My daughter has disappeared from my life Mr Stone. She has chosen to remove herself. She has chosen to do so with a young man that I cannot be sure will protect her from the threats that I have been able to protect her from. I have enemies too. It is of concern to me that she is kept safe from those who would use her life merely as a weapon to aim at me. To hurt me.”
Peter sat there, not knowing exactly what to say. This had gone from a Hollywood movie to one of those his friend Alan kept getting him to watch that made his head go to mush and just wound him up. For a good few minutes they just sat there in silence. Peter started to sag a little. He did not know what to say or what to do; he did not know what to make of this strange man whose car he was in. He didn’t feel any threat, just a disorientating sensation not unlike falling sideways. He looked down at the back of his hands and could have sworn they looked a little sunburnt.
When Peter looked up Fowler was sitting with his hand outstretched, a cardboard covered file in it. He had not even sensed the big man moving in the slightest.
“Take this from me,” Fowler said,” This will be enough to get you started on your way. There are details here of my daughter’s life and details of the man who she has gone with. He is unremarkable. She is young and impressionable. At this stage I am willing to disregard her mistakes and take her back under my protection.”
Another cough shook the car.
“Do you smoke Mr Stone?”
“Yes,” Peter said and it was all he could.
“I mean do you really smoke, Mr Stone?”
Peter thought he understood.
“Yes,” he said, slowly nodding as if to fall into the rhythm of the bigger man’s speech.
“In the file are the details I mentioned but there is also a cashier’s cheque made out for ten thousand pounds, simply as a retainer for your services. It is a fraction of the amount that you will receive on the safe return of Madeleine.”
“Okay,” Peter said and broke into a slight sweat on his forehead. If this man knew that he was faking through this he gave no indication, betrayed no sign of hesitation or suspicion. Peter felt that he could break a headstone over Ratcliffe Fowler’s head and he would not indicate any change in condition.
Fowler took one of his enormous hands and reached into his inner jacket pocket. The hand seemed to shrink down to normal size to get in there. It came out again with a small, golden cigarette case. As Ratcliffe Fowler gently clicked the case open Peter knew what was in it; the smell hit his nose before any information got to his eyes.
“Smoke this now.” Fowler said to him and it was not a question or a request. Peter nervously plucked a long, thin cigarette shaped object from the case and sat with it in his hands. Fowler reached to the right and clicked out of its holding place a hand grenade plated with silver. His arm went forward and reached Peter’s face easily and without the rest of Fowler’s bulk having to move.
Peter raised the elegant joint to his lips and then held the end up slightly, leaning in just a little. Fowler’s thumb came down and a bright flame came out in front of it, from the top of the hand grenade lighter. Peter pulled on the joint so that it lit but then felt nervous about taking another drag. He let it linger on the edge of his lip.
Fowler took another one of the joints for himself and lit it. He took a long, deep drag and held it in for a good thirty or forty seconds. He then expelled it directly forward and with such force that it blew all over Peter’s face. Peter felt uncomfortable like he had that time he’d watched that porn movie and halfway through another guy joined in but joined in with everybody.
“I have certain medical conditions, Mr Stone,” Fowler said, “I find that this drug helps me cope with the discomfort that living in this climate gives me. It is a stress for me, staying here. In this place. But I do it because I have chosen to.”
Peter dragged on the spliff and breathed it down and held it and let it go. His head span immediately and he didn’t know if it was today or yesterday or tomorrow or the end of time.
“Chosen to…” Peter said, limply echoing and little else. The life was draining from him, all pretence succumbing to a momentous and overpowering urge to lie down and pull this feeling over him like a big, safe blanket.
“Read the file, Mr Stone. Take the money. Be my eyes and ears because I cannot stand to be out there in this world. Be my strong arm. Find Madeleine Fowler and bring her home to me. Do anything you justify as reasonable to accomplish this task for me. I will bear the brunt of your actions. I will shield you.”
“Shield me…” Peter said and tried to open the file in his lap but his fingers didn’t seem to be connected to the tendons in his wrist anymore so they wouldn’t move around as he commanded them to.
“You need a fresh start Mr Stone. I can sense you are weary. My task is urgent but you must apply yourself to it fully and with energy. You will begin tomorrow. For today, here take more of my medicine.”
Fowler forced three or four joints into Peter’s side jacket pocket. Peter was truly stunned by this point and he felt his instincts kicking in. Someone reaching out and putting their hand in his pocket was unacceptable. Without thinking his left hand rushed out and grabbed Fowler’s retreating arm. Peter’s eyes widened. Fowler’s other hand reached over and detached Peter’s hand from the wrist with ease. Peter was shocked at Fowler’s physical strength; he had never known such a restrained power before despite all his years of fighting. Peter had been punched by men strong enough to knock him unconscious with one blow but he had never felt someone as strong as Fowler must be.
Peter’s hand hung in the air for a moment when Fowler let it go with a motion as casual as dropping paper into a rubbish bin. Then it fell to his knee and Peter relaxed, his frame going limp. He seemed to be sinking into something or other.
“Mm a detec’ ive,” Peter Stone said to Fowler, lolling back in the plush seat.
“Yes, I know you are,” Ratcliffe Fowler said and he clicked his fingers in Peter’s face.
Peter was sat on his sofa, bolt upright. He felt fresh and clear, rested but also confused. He looked at his wristwatch. It was two thirty in the afternoon.
