He stroked his beard.
Chapter Six
Bastian was in Nabulus’s office, the tallest white building on the high street, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. There was a guard outside on the street checking those who entered and another patrolling the corridors inside; both wore plimsolls, shorts and a vest, with the armband of a solitary ox. There were four floors with the lift deliberately taken out of action.
‘Relax, Bastian. I haven’t brought you here for a telling off. Just to say keep up the good work,’ said Nabulus.
It was time for his monthly report and both men were seated either side of Nabulus’s ivory inlaid desk.
‘But there is one thing that bothers me,’ he said.
‘The graffiti artist?’
The village had spawned a subversive who was painting an O on the government billboards slightly above and between the ST and the P.
‘Indeed, do you have a suspect in mind?’
‘I’m afraid not. Whoever it is seems to know my movements.’
‘Then perhaps you should look closer to home. But don’t worry, they’ll trip up eventually, they always do.’
‘Mind if I open a window?’ asked Bastian. ‘The heat is stifling.’
‘Be my guest.’
But this time it was the smell of Nabulus’s aftershave that was too powerful and not the sun. It was a cheap mix of citrus notes that smelt like the disinfectant the cleaners used in church.
Bastian breathed in the fresh air and turned back around.
‘Any news on Freya’s Anchor and that old guy in church?’ he asked.
‘Mum’s the word.’
‘Did he say anything, an explanation?’
‘Too far gone I’m afraid, but don’t worry, he’s been packed off to where he belongs.’
‘He shoved this into my pocket,’ said Bastian handing the key to Nabulus. ‘There’s a Scottish thistle on the back of the fob.’
‘Interesting, but I don’t know what it’s for. Let’s ask Holroyd, he’s worked at the Ministry of Retirement.’
He pressed his desk intercom to Harriet his secretary. ‘Fetch me Holroyd,’ he said.
‘Sir?’ asked Holroyd shuffling into the room.
‘Can you explain this key from our demented friend in church?’
‘I’d be glad to,’ began Holroyd. ‘Merely the key to his retirement apartment, presumably given when he boarded the ship.’
‘Is that usual before they arrive in Scotland?’ asked Bastian.
‘It sometimes happens,’ replied Holroyd.
‘Now no more questions Bastian, the case is closed,’ said Nabulus and he put the key in the top drawer of his desk before slamming it shut.
Harriet entered and placed two teas on the desk with her new ivory arm-bangle on show. Nabulus looked at her and affectionately stroked the top of his typewriter.
‘I believe you were just leaving us, Holroyd,’ said Nabulus.
‘Was it camomile or peppermint tea?’ Harriet asked Bastian.
‘Black, actually.’
‘Oh. Sorry, mmm...’
‘Bastian,’ he reminded her, though he hated doing so.
She played this game every time. As though he was meant to care that she couldn’t remember his name and that he would go to any lengths to make sure she did.
Harriet picked up the dropped napkin from the floor so he could admire her shapely legs as her skirt hitched up. But Bastian was looking out of the window at the street below and failed to notice the laddered nylon stocking. Only Party women were given nylons, the men received powdered tiger bones for strength and courage.
‘That’s enough, Harriet, thank you,’ said Nabulus, annoyed she was vainly searching for Bastian’s lustful gaze. ‘See if you can find my umbrella. I think it’s going to rain.’
She slammed the door on her way out and leaving someone to overstay their welcome.
‘Is there anything else, Holroyd?’ asked Nabulus.
He was sipping his tea whilst Bastian nearly spat his out, camomile!
‘I hear from my sources in church there’s been some strange goings on in the jungle every full moon after curfew,’ said Holroyd.
All citizens except the police and Party officials were expected to be indoors after midnight, if not asleep.
‘Poachers?’ wondered Bastian.
In spite of the risks, there were still some willing to profit from tusks, animal furs and the like. Sold on the black market to reach the Ice Pack with the smugglers paid in gold coin.
‘Did they say any more?’ Bastian asked.
He began to write studiously in his pad.
‘It’s in the eastern terrain,’ said Holroyd. ‘Perhaps you could take a look if Nabulus thinks it’s a good idea.’
Nabulus leant back in his leather upholstered chair, his eyes sweeping across the desk. There was a decanter on top half full of church wine with an unwashed glass at the side.
‘Of course. Now, Holroyd, if you please, dismissed.’
Holroyd gently closed the door on his way out.
‘Do you remember what you told me the day I handed you the keys to the village police station?’ asked Nabulus.
‘I’m nervous,’ said Bastian.
Nabulus smiled.
‘No. You were but it wasn’t that. You wanted to expose the hidden underbelly of the village.’
‘I’d had a flagon of cider for breakfast.’
‘I know, I could smell it on your breath. But I liked what you said. Don’t you think I get bored here too?’
‘I’ll take a look. Anything else?’
‘My sister Agrinda and her husband are settling into the village this week. See to it they are made welcome; her husband Joshua is my new assistant.’
Bastian left his tea and met Harriet in the corridor with her nose in the air.
Holroyd spent the remainder of the day two floors above Nabulus in the loft. He’d taken a flagon of cider and some dried monkey meat to chew as he surveyed the village through the spyglass, the largest telescope in the village. When his eye met Jambit’s staring from his makeshift garden observatory, both men nearly fell off their stools.
Chapter Seven
The animal cry caught Bastian by surprise, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck in the dense jungle labyrinth, and sent a shiver down his spine. He stepped onto a twig snapping it in half. Only glimpses of the moon guided his path and he often bumped into the trees. The slippery mud and bracken underfoot slowed him further. Silence met fear when the light from two lanterns approached. He stood still, his mouth
