Paddy Bostock - Chosen

“Soo… meantime, shall we perhaps continue with my little scheme? Clearly, should it not work out to the satisfaction of all our desires, one might need to consider alternatives, although Jezza’s demise would not in my view be the most productive of them. But get him right in the head again and we can all look forward to dec ades of productivity before he pops his clogs.”

Sophie, Gloria and Ron smiled, albeit rictally.

“Now… I’m afraid I really must dash. Busy, busy, busy. People to see. Places to go, so bysie-bye for now. I’ll be in touch. Come on, Gizzly,” said Sir Mortimer, taking Frau Professor Doktor von Strumpf by the hand and leading her away to the waiting Bentley.

Not such a little doorstep chat then, a pretty wide-ranging one. Just as well that Barry, having overheard it from his weeding duties in a cluster of giant hydrangea bushes around the corner, was in no hurry to pass on all of its contents to Jeremy. Poor bloke had enough on his plate already without family death threats to contend with, he reckoned. Sophie’s, Gloria’s, and Ron’s desire to kill their husband/son he would therefore keep schtum about. But, having listened with empathy to Jeremy’s bean-spilling version of recent chosen/madness issues and then his worries about further incursions by Sir Magnus, Barry felt obliged to confirm Jeremy’s fears of threatened military reinforcements, although he emphasized they wouldn’t be actual soldiers but only soldier shrinks.

“Soldier shrinks ?” said Jeremy.

“Yeah, pals of his who’ve worked with soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan who’d gone bonkers after all the killing out there. What’s that thing they got again?”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“That’s it. Anyway, these blokes’ job was to shake ’em up good and proper, so they could get their heads straight and get on with the job of shooting the shit out of the bad guys again.”

“Christ. And he’s going to unleash those bastards on me ?”

“That’s what he said.”

“And how d’you know this, Bazza?”

“Just doin’ the weeds around the corner, wasn’t I? Not listenin’ in on pur pose, like. Only he’s got a loud voice, that boss of yours, ain’t he?”

“ Ex -boss. Tell me about it. Foghorns have nothing on Sir Magnus when exercised. A whole army of new shrinks, then?”

“What it sounded like. Another touch of the nettle brandy?”

Jeremy took the proffered bottle and swigged hard. “I don’t fancy meeting up with that bunch,” he said, peering at the empty bottle and shaking it. “Any ideas, Bazza?”

“Well in the circs, if it’s a plan you’re askin’ for, maybe the best thing right now would be for us to get the hell out of Dodge before he comes back with this psycho army of his and shit hits fans.”

“Us? You mean you and me?”

“Yeah.”

“You would be prepared to help me? I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Barry shrugged. “No trouble.”

“Sure, sure, sure ?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. And leave all this behind?” said Jeremy, gesturing out at the estate and the mansion.

“I reckon you’ll have to if you want to avoid the bother. And after all you told me about that ‘chosen’ business of yours, I don’t reckon you’d miss it.”

Jeremy nodded and smiled. Bazza was right. If he were to live up to his newly discovered version of sanity, the logical next step into the future would be precisely to leave the past behind.

“And where would we be going ?”

“You’ll see. It’ll be fine.”

“And can Pete come too?”

“Of course he can. Just let’s wait until darkness falls and we shall all take our little trip.”

It was at midnight beneath a gibbous moon, when Sophie, Gloria and Ron were all too pissed to notice or care after a dinner of lamb shank and all the trimmings plus two bottles of Jeremy’s special cellar reserve Ruinart Rosé RV champagne, that Barry, Jeremy and Pete made their clandestine exit from the barn. Barry had his extra size, extra deep, four-wheeler wheelbarrow waiting at the door.

“Just hop in and snuggle down,” he told Jeremy. “And once you’re comfy, I’ll chuck some twigs and branches and stuff on top of you. Nobody will ever suspect. Not that there’ll be anybody out this time of night. All off in the land of nod, as usual.”

“And Pete?” said Jeremy, climbing into the niffy barrow and curling himself into a ball.

“Don’t worry about Pete. He’ll follow me anywhere I tell him. Now you just settle yourself down while I chuck this stuff over you.”

“Okay.”

And so it was, once satisfied with the camouflaging, that Barry hefted the wheelbarrow’s shafts and off they set along the banks of the stream behind the barn, Pete trotting behind, tied to Barry by a long rope. Along the way, Barry sang excerpts from Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are-A-Changin’.”

“Oink, oink ,” chorused Pete.

Jeremy would have joined in too had it not been for the need for absolute secrecy. Who knew what rumours might have circulated around the village had any neighbour chanced not to be asleep, stopped for a gossip, and come across a singing wheelbarrow?

Across the little bridge over the stream Barry trundled, taking his usual route. Then it was along the hamlet’s hundred yard main drag, past the only pub, The Wigeon With Wings, past the ruined Norman church and a couple of cottages, until he reached open fields and, leading through them, the wild-hedged, leafy path that ended at the copse of sycamores in which nestled his white Shepherd’s Hut mobile home, which was only marginally larger than Jeremy’s barn, although it had an upstairs too. There he laid down the wheelbarrow’s shafts, tied Pete to a handrail of the three-step staircase leading up to the porch, and told the fugitive he could come out. The whole trip had taken no more than half an hour.

But there was no response from Jeremy, no sign of movement in the wheelbarrow, nothing.

“Jezza?” he called, delving into the canopy of leaves, branches, and other detritus. God help him if the bloke had suffered a heart attack or something.

But no, once Barry found a foot and waggled it, Jeremy gurgled a bit, sat bolt upright, and took to peering about.

“Bloody hell, must’ve nodded off,” he said, swiping twigs from his hair. “Brilliant ride, Bazza. Really enjoyed it. Like all the weight of the world had been lifted. Wow, is that your house ?”

“Such as it is. But you’ll be safe here. Nobody ever comes without an invitation. Which I rarely extend. And the postman leaves any letters in a hollow oak down the end of the path we just came up. Otherwise it’s just me. Oh, and Shirley.”

“Your partner… or whatever?”

Barry grinned and pointed at the two forepaws drumming on his front window and the shaggy head with pricked-up ears between them.

“You might think of it that way. My best friend, that’s for sure. Only she’s a Labrador/Afghan Hound cross. Hi there, Shirl,” he said, waving. “Be with you in a minute.”

“Raaf, raaf, RAAAFFFF ,” said Shirl. Muffledly.

Jeremy climbed out of his wheelbarrow and waved too.

“D’you reckon she’ll get along with Pete?” he said, patting the pig on his pink head.

“’Course she will. Knows Pete already from the couple of times I took her over to your place with me when you and the missus were off in Barbados or wherever. Best of pals, these two, aren’t you, Pete?”

“Oink, oink, OINK ,” said Pete, his two front trotters already on the staircase and his curly tail twitching.