I took a deep swallow of beer and for the first time that day felt a settling, a return to reality.
‘Will it be in the paper tomorrow?’ Margaret asked.
‘No,’ Vaughn replied. ‘They keep it quiet. Doesn’t fit in with their version of reality.’
‘The news is controlled by the people in power,’ Freddie said. ‘Don’t ever believe anything you read in the paper or hear on the radio.’
Margaret knocked back her sherry and reached across the table for my pint, taking a deep swallow before returning it. I knew how she felt. I finished the beer and rose to get more.
‘Anyone else?’ I asked, but they ignored me. Freddie was getting onto his high horse, ready to win another debate.
‘Every time you hear something on the radio, ask yourself why they’re letting you hear it,’ Freddie said. It sounded like a well-rehearsed pitch. I stood at the bar waiting for thelandlord, and watched Margaret listening to Freddie’s lecture. She was glowing. They all were. I knew the feeling well. Returning from a mission, that feeling of having beaten the odds, returning unscathed. The conquering heroes.
I ordered two pints of best, and two shots of whisky, and listened to Freddie while I waited.
‘Every news story, ask yourself, if this is true, why do they want me to know it? What do they want me to think, or feel, or do?’
There was a noticeboard behind the bar. A community service, a place for announcements, job postings, government warnings about keeping mum. What to do in the event of an invasion. A new poster stood out.
Behind me, Freddie was getting into his rhythm.
‘Imagine it’s not the truth,’ he continued. ‘Why are they lying to me? Either way, with the limited time to tell you what’s going on in the whole wide world, why are they choosing these things? What kind of picture of the world are they trying to conjure up? What do they want of me?’
The new poster was a land agent’s notice. Sale of property. Victorian villa. Superior craftsmanship. Priced for a quick sale.
At the far end of the bar, someone was watching me. Horace Knight. The land agent. Like a spider, watching his lines for tremors.
He joined me, and paid for my drinks. He could afford it. He’d done well enough out of me in the past, each time I’d added land to my farm.
‘Interesting opportunity,’ he said. ‘Not sure how it would fit in with your operation, but I try to leave the strategic thinking to my clients.’
‘An investment,’ I said. ‘I hear the rental market’s heating up. People want to get out of London, avoid whatever’s coming.’
‘You’re telling me,’ he said. ‘Rents are double what they were a year ago. You could let that place for a pretty penny.’
‘Who’s the seller?’ I asked.
‘Davidson’s boy.’
‘How much do you reckon he’d let it go for?’
‘He’s motivated to sell. Gambling debts.’
‘How motivated?’
Knight sipped his drink. He had to be careful. He was representing the seller, and wanted to get as much for his client as he could. But his main incentive was to sell the place quickly and pocket the commission. If they sold the place for twenty thousand, his one per cent commission would be two hundred. A nice fee but not likely to make or break his year either way. If a buyer knocked him down to fifteen thousand, the sellers would be out by a fortune, but Knight’s fee would only be cut by fifty pounds.
‘I think he’ll go for sixteen,’ he said. My estimate had been close to the mark. Kate’s father would have spent as much to build the place at the turn of the century, but the economy had been on a wild ride since then.
‘When did he take you on?’ I asked.
‘The day after the mother died,’ he said. ‘Life goes on.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.
‘He said you’d come around,’ he said. ‘Gave me a message to pass on.’
He smirked as he rummaged in his coat pocket. He’d been holding back, enjoying the power. Treating me like a fool.
