The Dark Side of the Road Page 2

  He shrugged easily. ‘On every occasion, I will see to it that you are provided with all the information you need to do the job. I will never ask you to do anything you’re not happy with. I represent a large Organization, with a great many agents. I always make it a point to fit the right man to the right mission.’

  ‘But why me?’ I said. ‘Why do you want me?’

  ‘You have qualities I admire,’ said the Colonel. And that was that.

  ‘I don’t know you, Colonel,’ I said. ‘Which is odd because there aren’t many in our line of work I haven’t at least heard of. I have made it my business to know who’s out there. So who are you really? Who pulls your strings? Who do you answer to?’

  ‘I am the Colonel, and I represent the Organization. That is all you’ll ever need to know. Safer that way, for all concerned.’

  I looked into my glass and was surprised to find it empty. ‘What makes you think you know anything about me, Colonel? The real me?’

  ‘What does anyone really know about anyone else?’ said the Colonel. ‘I have followed your career with great interest, for some time. From a safe distance.’

  ‘No one was ever supposed to know what I do,’ I said. ‘No matter who I was working for. That was always part of the deal.’

  ‘You’ve done very well at being invisible,’ the Colonel conceded. ‘Always been very good at moving unseen, in the darker places of the world. I like that. I can use that.’

  I gave him my best hard look. ‘What’s the catch?’

  To his credit, he didn’t budge an inch. And I’ve made grown men wet themselves with my hard look. He just smiled calmly back at me.

  ‘If you say yes, you belong to me and my Organization, until I say you can leave. Is that acceptable to you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  We both knew he knew I was lying; but we raised our drinks and toasted each other anyway. Because that’s how deals are made, in our line of business. And so I worked for the Colonel, and whatever his Organization was, for almost fifteen years.

  I did good work for him. On his order, I broke into places that didn’t officially exist, to steal information that powerful people didn’t want to admit existed, and then I made it public for everyone to see. I travelled all over the world, passing through dozens of countries under dozens of names, from the biggest cities to towns so small that they didn’t even show up on the maps. I investigated strange situations and impossible stories, and did things about them. Always moving under the radar, never making waves. I drove on the dark side of the road, in the darker places of the world, dealing with people and things that the world was better off without. Sometimes, I killed people. And sometimes I killed things that weren’t even a little bit people.

  And I never felt bad about it once.

  I followed my satnav’s directions through the blizzard, hoping it knew where it was going because I’d lost all sense of where I was. The machine spoke to me in cool impersonal tones, which I preferred to any of the current celebrity voices. I’ve never liked machines that pretend to have personalities. Technology should know its place. Actually, the thing hadn’t talked to me in some time, because there weren’t any side turnings. I hoped it was still working.

  On the brief occasions when the wind did drop, presumably to work up more spite and malevolence to throw at me, all I could see ahead and around me was snow and more snow, stretching away into the grey distance. Not a living thing to be seen anywhere.

  The last village I’d passed through, half an hour back, had been two rows of dark-stoned houses, crouched together for warmth and support. Dim lights glowed from curtained windows, while people hid from the killing force of the cold and the deadly violence of the storm. I could have stopped, if only to check my location and maybe grab some hot food and drink … but I couldn’t shake off a terrible sense of urgency. The Colonel never asked for personal favours. He just didn’t. So I drove on, into the snow and the wind and the storm, fighting the car as it did its best to slam me into snow banks, or send me spinning out of control as it skidded round a corner.

  The satnav finally condescended to point out a non-signposted side road that I’d never have spotted without its advance warning. I hit the brakes, but they didn’t want to know, so I just waited till the last moment and then hauled the steering wheel all the way round. I hung on grimly as the car threw itself into the side road. The wheel fought me savagely, and I fought it back, holding it firmly in position even as the steering column made ominous, unhappy noises. For long moments the car just slid sideways, none of the tyres able to gain any traction … and then suddenly they found gravel underneath the snow and dug in, and the car leapt forward.

  The falling snow let off for just a moment, so I could see the narrow side road stretching away before me, bounded by two low drystone walls that had all but vanished under piled-up drifts. I drove on, bouncing and shaking over snow and hidden ice. I’d had the headlights on for some time, but they didn’t help much. The windscreen wipers … were doing their best. I almost missed it when the road came to a sudden end. I could just make out a tall stone boundary wall up ahead of me, stretching away in both directions until it disappeared into the storm. And right in front of me, getting closer by the moment, a pair of massive black iron gates. Very firmly closed.

  I hit the brakes and the clutch, slamming both feet down hard, and the car shook and shuddered as it slowed. The gates loomed up before me. I really hoped I was going to be able to stop in time. Marking my arrival at Belcourt Manor by crashing through their front gates would not make a good first impression. But the car skidded to a halt two or maybe even three feet short of the huge iron gates, and I kicked the car out of gear, hauled on the hand brake, and then just sat there for a while, breathing hard. I took my hands off the steering wheel and opened and closed them several times, till I got the knots out. I’d been clinging on to that wheel for so long that I almost didn’t know what to do with my hands any more.

  The old stone walls on either side of the gates were rough and bare and featureless. Surrounding the family estate, presumably. They looked like they could keep out most things. The gates had no decorations, no stylistic flourishes. Just brutal uprights and heavy cross bars. I probably wouldn’t have crashed through them after all. Just totalled the car. Not that I cared. It was only a rental. I looked for a sign plate somewhere, to confirm this was Belcourt Manor, but there didn’t seem to be one. Presumably you either knew where you were, or you had no reason being here. The satnav chose that moment to announce You have reached your destination in a very smug tone, so I shut it off. I studied the gates through the falling snow and could just make out a numbered keypad and an intercom grille, tucked neatly away in a niche in one of the stone gateposts. I sat and looked at the niche for a while.

  The Colonel hadn’t provided me with an entrance code for the keypad; presumably because he didn’t trust an open phone. But I really didn’t want to get out of my nice warm car. I sounded the horn several times, but even to me the sound seemed small and pathetic in the face of the raging wind. There was no response from beyond the gates. So I sighed heavily, pulled my coat around me, and pushed the car door open.

  That took rather more strength than I expected. Ice had built up all across the outside of the car, sealing the door shut. And even after I got the thing open, through a winning combination of brute strength and bad temper, the roaring wind just slammed it shut again, hitting the door like a battering ram. Unfortunately for the wind, I was in no mood to be messed with, so I just put my shoulder to the door and forced it open again.

  I clambered out of the car, one careful movement at a time because I didn’t trust the snow and ice under my feet, and made myself stand upright in the storm. The cold cut at my bare face like a knife, and the freezing air seared my lungs as I breathed it in. The wind snatched the car door out of my hand, and slammed it shut again. I lowered my head, hunched my shoulders, and headed for the iron gates. One step at a time. My shoes
sank deep into the piled-up snow, and it was hard work pulling them out again. The gusting wind hit me hard, slamming me this way and that with a bully’s enthusiasm. I just kept moving. The cold and storm might have stopped anyone else, but it wasn’t going to stop me.

  I reached the niche in the gatepost, brushed away some of the blown-in snow, and then hit the call button and yelled into the intercom. I said my name loudly, several times, and added a few shouted Hellos! for good measure. There was a long pause, while snow accumulated on my head and shoulders, and then a far-off voice emerged from the grille. It sounded frankly astonished that there was anyone there.

  ‘Hello?’ it said. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ishmael Jones!’ I shouted back, fighting to be heard over the roar of the wind. ‘I’m expected!’

  ‘Yes! Yes you are!’ said the voice. ‘Of course you are! We just didn’t expect anyone to … I’ll open the gates!’

  I refrained from saying a great many things and went back to the car. Getting the door open from the outside proved even more difficult, but I wasn’t taking any nonsense from the car now I was so close to warmth and shelter. I put one foot up against the rear door, hauled the driver’s door open and dived back inside. I had to clear the inside of the windscreen with my coat sleeve before I could see out again. I revved the engine a few times, and then edged the car forward as the gates swung slowly open. I urged the car on. The engine was making sounds I didn’t like, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the thing would last.

  I’d barely got the car through the gates before they started swinging shut again. Someone at the Manor really wasn’t keen on letting in unexpected visitors. I made a mental note to learn the correct numbers for the entrance keypad, first chance I got. I hate feeling trapped. Though the stone wall that surrounded the estate was barely ten feet high; I could jump that, if I had to.

  I drove on, following the gently curving drive. An old-fashioned manor house loomed out of the falling snow ahead of me, along with several smaller outbuildings. I skidded to a halt before the main house. Belcourt Manor was a huge structure, squat and square, centuries old. Only four stories high, but with a dozen windows along every floor. All of them currently concealed behind closed wooden shutters. Glints of light showed through cracks in the ground floor shutters. No lights on anywhere else. No gargoyles on the roof, and no arched gables; just basic functional guttering with icicles hanging off, and a sloping slate roof.

  A medieval tithe barn stood to one side of the main house, all rough stone walls and an arching roof, while a long terrace of Victorian cottages huddled together on the far side. No lights on there, either.

  Something caught my eye, and I looked quickly up at the top floor of the Manor. Had there just been a flash of light up there, as though someone had opened a shutter to look down at me? Someone interested in my arrival? I thought so. I watched for a while, but all the shutters seemed securely closed.

  I looked around for a garage, or at least somewhere sheltered I could park my car, out of the storm, but there didn’t seem to be anything. Half a dozen large white objects set out before the Manor were quite clearly parked cars buried under quite a lot of snow. So I just manoeuvred my car carefully between the still white shapes and parked as close to the front door as I could get. And then I sat there a little longer, peering out at the falling snow. What was I doing here? This didn’t feel like the kind of job the Colonel usually needed me for. Something about this whole set-up didn’t feel right … There had been something in the Colonel’s voice, something I wasn’t used to hearing from him. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said he was scared …

  So; the sooner I got inside, got the Colonel alone, and got some answers out of him, the better. I grabbed my battered suitcase from the passenger seat, forced the car door open again, and ventured out into the snow one last time. The wind had dropped away to nothing, not even murmuring; the falling snow just drifted down, casually, almost listlessly. It was like standing in the eye of the storm. I looked past the long row of cottages and could just make out acres of grounds, with cultivated flower beds, trees and hedges, and a whole bunch of sculpted topiary shapes already losing the details of their identity under piled up snow. It probably all looked very impressive, when the weather was behaving itself.

  I trudged through the thick snow to the front door, my shoes sinking in deep with every step, making loud crunching sounds. It was really very cold, but I’d faced worse, in my time. And then, when I finally stood before the front door, I discovered there was no bell button. Not even an old-fashioned pull-chain. Just a single great black iron knocker, in the shape of a snarling lion’s head with a ring in its jaws. I took a firm hold of the ring and banged it hard. I don’t feel the cold like most people, but this was a serious storm. Winter with attitude. Enough to affect even me, maybe, if I stayed out in it long enough. So I banged the knocker again, putting some power into it. The people inside had to have heard. They could probably hear it on the moon. The huge door swung suddenly open, and I barged on in without waiting for an invitation.

  A blast of warmth embraced me like a favourite aunt, and I stopped dead in the hallway to let out a long contented sigh. I dropped my suitcase on the heavily-carpeted floor and stretched slowly, getting the kinks out. Clumps of snow fell off my coat, to melt and soak into the expensive carpet. Like I cared. The door slammed shut behind me, and a huge overbearing gentleman in a formal butler’s outfit came forward to tower over me. He was exceedingly tall, with a muscular build, and he was also quite indisputably black, with a gleaming shaven head. He held himself sternly erect, the better to look down his nose at me. I let him look as I beat the rest of the snow from my clothes and stamped hard to shake the ice off my shoes. It felt good to be out of the storm and inside somewhere civilized. I shook myself, hard; and just like that the cold was gone from my bones, and I was toasty warm and entirely comfortable. The butler watched me dripping snow all over everything, clearly considering whether he should just throw me back out. I smiled at him brightly, and he nodded briefly.

  I could see he had a great many things he wanted to ask, so I let him wait. Never show weakness; they take advantage. Instead, I took my time looking around the long entrance hall of Belcourt Manor. It was huge, and determinedly old-fashioned, with no expense spared. The walls were covered with portraits of grim-faced people, presumably family ancestors, along with traditional country scenes in a variety of undemanding and unadventurous styles. The furniture was large and sturdy, undoubtedly antique, and all of it dusted and polished to within an inch of its life. The hall was also just a bit gloomy, despite everything modern electric lighting could do. Doors led off on both sides, the entire length of the hall – which stretched away into the distance before ending reluctantly in a great sweeping stairway, with stout wooden banisters. I must have seen a larger entrance hall somewhere, but I was damned if I could think where. I’d lived in hotel suites that were smaller. So of course I made a point of appearing entirely unimpressed, as though this was all business as usual, to me. I nodded back to the butler.

  ‘I am Ishmael Jones,’ I said. ‘I’m expected.’

  ‘Of course you are, sir,’ said the butler, in a rich cultured voice. ‘I am Jeeves; butler to Walter Belcourt, master of Belcourt Manor.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ I said.

  ‘The most recent weather reports would seem to indicate you are very lucky to have reached us at all,’ said Jeeves. ‘The storm is growing worse by the moment, covering all of Cornwall and Devon, and most of South-West England. It seems likely that in a few hours the blizzard will have sealed the manor house off completely from the rest of the world.’

  There was something in his voice, and his look, which suggested very politely that I was a damned fool for trying to drive through such extreme conditions in the first place.

  ‘I’m stubborn,’ I said. ‘I don’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Jeeves. ‘Make I take your coat, sir?’ br />
  I peeled off my heavy coat. Melting snow had soaked through to the lining, even in the short time I’d been exposed to the storm. Water dripped from the bottom of the coat like a leaky tap. Jeeves took my coat from me and held it out at arm’s length, between thumb and forefinger, as though he didn’t want to catch anything from it. I gave him a hard look.

  ‘Take good care of that coat, Jeeves. I have had it a long time, and I am very attached to it. That coat has travelled with me through many adventures, in many wild territories.’

  ‘I did get that impression, sir,’ said Jeeves. ‘I have rarely encountered an article of clothing that appeared so … hard done by.’

  ‘So treat it respectfully,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll set fire to your shirt-front.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Jeeves. ‘I shall find somewhere appropriate to hang it up. Somewhere it won’t feel crushed by the proximity of other coats of a less boisterous nature.’ He then looked down his nose at my suitcase, which had also, it must be said, seen better days. Jeeves made no move to pick it up. ‘Do you wish me to fetch your other bags from your car, sir?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s all there is. Travel light, travel fast.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. You must positively skip along. Not to worry, sir; I am sure we can supply you with everything you might need, during your stay here.’

  ‘Is Jeeves really your name?’ I said, bluntly.

  ‘No, sir,’ said the butler. ‘But for the money Mister Belcourt is paying me, if he wishes to call me Jeeves, I am perfectly happy to answer to that illustrious name. Though I feel I should point out that I do not mix cocktails or provide helpful advice to those who find themselves in a bit of a pickle, and neither do I untangle emotional difficulties. I just buttle.’

  ‘Have you always been a gentleman’s gentleman?’

  ‘No, sir. I have led a wide, interesting and most satisfying life.’