Bastian quickly showered and changed with a reinvigorated determination to police the village. The soap felt good against his bare chin but he would need a few days of sunshine to even out the tan.
* * *
‘Jeremiah wants you back this week,’ shouted Bastian to the wiry framed pigsty-man.
Clem was filling the pig trough and nodded. He tended to all the pigsties that provided the village with pork and lard. His own sty had a large lined wallow full of mud and water to protect the pigs from the high temperatures. They had no sweat glands and could easily die of sunburn and sunstroke. The back of the sty provided shelter from the storms that could blow in from the sea, and shade from the sun. But Clem couldn’t trade the pork, it belonged to the village.
‘Have you seen a lamb come this way? I still got one missing from last night,’ said Bastian.
‘Then maybe that’s the carcass,’ said Clem. ‘I found it on the outskirts of the jungle this morning.’
Bastian looked at the bloodied ball of wool on the ground and sighed.
‘How do you cope, Clem?’
‘You get used to the smell.’
‘I mean with being an outcast.’
‘It’s not so bad when people turn a blind eye.’
‘Then you’re the invisible man.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Then I guess you see a whole lot more than most,’ said Bastian.
‘I told you, I only saw her hanging.’
‘What happened to her Clem, and the old man?’
‘What should I care?’ He tore off the savaged lamb’s foot and threw it in the trough. ‘The pigs eat anything, even people given the chance.’
* * *
The sheep were grazing on the 18th hole of the old golf course turned to pasture as the cart trundled by, pulled by an old Shire horse blind in one eye and driven by the village rat-catcher with the sign of the vermin tattooed on his forearm.
Bastian sat against the low stone wall, quarried and built by the nearest chain-gang, and looked towards the opium poppies bathed in sunshine.
Chapter Fifteen
It was late afternoon and Bastian was seated in the church confession box in his best shorts. The curtain was drawn across on the small brass rail, revealing a small latticed screen dividing penitent and priest but it couldn’t disguise their voices.
‘Tell me,’ said Malthus, sat on the other side of the screen. ‘What is it that weighs so heavily upon your soul, trouble’s your heart?’
‘My heart is fine,’ replied Bastian.
In fact, it had never felt better and he was soon to see the reason behind this revival, May.
‘Then let me put it another way,’ said Malthus. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m troubled, vicar. Do you remember the old man that ran screaming into church?’
‘How could I forget, he gave me indigestion.’
‘Nabulus has asked me to close the investigation, and on the hanging girl.’
‘Then only a subversive would go against his advice.’
‘Weren’t the early Christians considered subversives?’ asked Bastian.
‘Indeed, but they listened to God, like the STP today. Democracy is dead, Bastian, because the biggest swine left nothing in the trough for the rest of us.’
Malthus was following the Party line and like most citizens was unsure who he could trust and who would report him.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Have a nice evening,’ replied Bastian.
* * *
Bastian patted the two camels tied outside before walking into the house with the open front door.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not staying,’ shouted June from the kitchen. ‘I’m just serving dinner.’
The evening light was beginning to fade and there were lit candles on the kitchen table.
‘You look disappointed,’ said May.
‘Not at all, I just like listening to June.’
‘Oh, is that all.’
‘Meatloaf,’ said June, placing the baking tin on the table with her oven gloves.
She’d misplaced the heat resistant mat to protect the table but furniture was used not revered.
‘Smells delicious,’ said Bastian.
‘And you were going to say any different,’ laughed June. ‘Don’t worry ‘bout upsetting me. Maybe you’ve put one in the oven too after yesterday with May.’
* * *
‘How’d you think Bastian’s getting on with May?’ asked Eliza.
‘He doesn’t speak to me about such things,’ replied Jeremiah, looking through another travel brochure found yesterday at the bottom of a drawer.
‘Let Mandrake take that to the recycling plant tonight. Maybe he can shred it without anyone noticing,’ said Eliza.
Travel brochures were the first paper recycled and Party officials were always disappointed to find any still in circulation.
‘I’m taking it to Scotland,’ said Jeremiah.
He wasn’t, but neither was he in the mood to take orders from Eliza.
‘Don’t be a fool, Jeremiah.’
‘If I’m the fool how come you took the steroids from June and caused all this trouble for us and her?’
‘Are we going to argue?’ she asked. ‘That’s something else we haven’t done in years.’
‘Oh, don’t worry old girl, I haven’t got it in me,’ he replied.
‘I’m off to work,’ said Mandrake passing through the kitchen.
‘Don’t forget the ham sandwiches I made, and take some bananas off the tree,’ said Eliza.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘What sandwiches does Rebekah make you these days?’ she asked. ‘When she finds the time.’
‘The same as always,’ said Mandrake, not wishing to get drawn into another argument about Rebekah’s suitability as a wife and parent.
Eliza had caused enough trouble over the years complaining about Rebekah. The towels were never washed, the beds not made, and not enough hot dinners for her boy. Until eventually Eliza wasn’t welcome, which gave her the opportunity to complain that she was never invited round.
‘Take this magazine for me,’ said Jeremiah reluctantly taking Eliza’s advice, whilst Mandrake packed the sandwiches into his old school holdall.
‘But don’t get into any trouble, if anyone asks, say it’s mine,’ said Jeremiah.
‘It’s okay, Dad, no one will notice,’ said Mandrake.
‘Are you coming here in the morning or going back to her?’ asked Eliza.
‘Going home,’ replied Mandrake. ‘Rebekah’s finished painting the lounge.’
‘What’s the point? You’ll both be moving in here after this week,’ said Eliza, as Mandrake closed the door behind him.
It didn’t matter what Rebekah did, there was always a downside
