The Prime Minister, Mrs. Collier and McManus entered the old-fashioned hotel lobby. There was no air-conditioning but a couple of whirring ceiling fans provided a welcome breeze. Tall palms and other house plants abounded as did a dated form of stained-wood panelling. Myriad faded prints depicting scenes of fox hunting and pre-industrial crop gathering covered the walls.
‘Rustic,’ remarked the PM, to himself.
The reception desk on the left was vacant, but from behind a door straight ahead, marked “Bar”, there came an indistinct drone of chatter. McManus drifted towards it, as though pulled by an invisible cord. At least now, he was silent. Mrs. Collier gripped his arm and held him back. She looked to the Prime Minister, awaiting instruction.
‘Shall we follow Marcus’s lead?’ the PM suggested.
Mrs. Collier released McManus who proceeded ahead and opened the door to the bar.
The surprisingly large barroom contained several tables, most of which were vacant. Around the remainder clustered groups of patrons or locals quietly talking as they hid from the intense midday sun. For a moment, no one seemed to notice the newcomers but then one woman suddenly shrieked: ‘O M G! It’s you!! …it is you, isn’t it?’
The room fell silent as all heads turned to face the arrivals and there followed an audible intake of breath as the PM was recognized. Several individuals rose up and came over, and the PM switched to politician-mode, grinning broadly and shaking hands. ‘Any babies need kissing?’ he joked.
‘What the hell are you doing here!?’ asked one patron.
‘Just stopping off between engagements, hope you don’t mind. Even I need refreshments from time to time!’
Everyone laughed, including McManus.
The barman came rushing over: ‘Prime Minister! What an honour! Peter Fitzgibbon – I’m the proprietor of this humble establishment. I’m afraid we’re not set-up to provide luncheon, but I’m sure we can rustle up something. A toasted sandwich, perhaps?’
‘Thanks, but no thanks, Peter,’ replied the PM. ‘RAF Bolus provided us with brunch earlier and it’s still sitting somewhat heavily within me!’ He patted his belly and everyone laughed again, including McManus. ‘Maybe a half of your local ale?’
‘Coming right up!’ replied Fitzgibbon, as he rushed back to the bar. The PM followed and gingerly edged his backside onto a barstool, next to the hotel’s enormous feline; he began, absentmindedly, to stroke it as his drink was being poured.
‘Prime Minister!’ McManus said, urgently.
‘Yes, order what you want, Marcus,’ replied the PM, impatiently. ‘You, too, Mrs. Collier.’
‘But, Prime Minister!!’ McManus repeated, in an agitated tone. Mrs. Collier, frowning, consulted her phone and suddenly looked alarmed: ‘Sir!!’ She handed her phone over to the PM: it displayed The Gang of Four’s selfie from Vauxhall Cross.
‘Why are you showing me this?’ he asked. He then glanced over at McManus who was pointing at the cat. The PM turned and studied it closely for the first time. Good god! It was one of The Gang of Four! And it was staring straight back at him with fierce Stalin-like black eyes. The PM slowly removed his hand from the cat’s head.
‘So what do you intend to do about the striking train drivers, Prime Minister?’ asked one of the patrons, who had suddenly appeared from nowhere.
‘What?’ replied the PM, vacantly.
Mrs. Collier quickly ushered the man away: ‘Give the PM some space, please. This is not PMQs.’ She then sat down on the other side of the cat, which still fixed its gaze upon the PM.
The Prime Minister’s drink duly arrived and he sipped at it awkwardly, breaking eye-contact with the cat in the process, but he then returned to study the cat again; it was now staring blankly ahead.
Remarkable! The whole point of this trip had been to make contact with the elusive Gang of Four, and here he was sitting next to the cat! If it were not for McManus’s special gift, he’d be ignoring it completely. In fact, all thoughts of the Gang of Four had somehow evaporated the moment he’d entered this hotel. All of his wits would be needed now. Think logically, he said to himself. Rely on McManus! He handed over Mrs. Collier’s phone:
‘Marcus, are the others in this picture present now, here, in this room?’
McManus nervously surveyed the barroom.
‘No!’
‘No giant spiders anywhere?’
McManus checked again: ‘No! Thank god!’
The PM examined the cat again: ‘Do you understand me?’ he murmured, keen not to be overheard by the bar’s inquisitive clientele. The cat turned to him and once again held steady eye-contact; it nodded slowly. The PM nodded back: ‘You’ve been leading us a merry chase these past few days, haven’t you?’ he said, in a deliberately light manner.
The cat suddenly sniggered, like Mutley – a bizarre, unnatural and disturbing sound to hear emerging from an animal. Hilarity stretched over its fat face as it reached forward and extracted a pork scratching from an open bag on the bar counter. It began crunching noisily and offered the packet to the Prime Minister.
‘Thanks,’ said the PM, as he took a small rind. He hated pork scratchings; the last time he’d eaten one it had shattered a tooth. He placed it in his mouth and carefully applied pressure. Too risky, it was rock hard; instead, he sucked on the foul salty thing and nodded appreciatively at the cat, who then offered the packet to Mrs. Collier, who politely declined. McManus was ignored.
‘Where are the others?’ the PM enquired of the cat, as he tried, once again, to crunch down on the pork scratching. It suddenly gave way and he feared one of his teeth had as well. Fuck it: he began crunching vigorously.
The cat stared blankly at the PM.
‘Your cohorts… Russell Tebb, Ceres …and your arachnid chum?’
The cat nodded vigorously, as though suddenly understanding, and it attempted to speak! But its mouthful of scratchings rendered its “speech” unintelligible. It sounded like gravel being rotated in a concrete mixer.
‘What!?’ said the PM, flabbergasted.
The cat made an effort to swallow but couldn’t, so it just pointed towards a door at the far end of the barroom.
‘That’s a communal hall that we let out to the croppies: crop circle enthusiasts,’ announced Fitzgibbon. Then whispering, he added: ‘Bunch of nuts if you ask me, but good for business.’ He winked conspiratorially at the PM and the PM smiled back before turning to study the door to this “communal hall”.
Mrs. Collier’s phone suddenly bleeped prompting McManus to yelp and drop it. Mrs. Collier quickly retrieved it: ‘Yes!?’ After a short pause she turned to the Prime Minister: ‘There’s been a disturbance at the hotel entrance, sir. A resident from a neighbouring village – carrying ID for “Gerald Jones-Evison”, occupation: farmhand – is demanding entrance with menaces.’
‘So we have an uppity yokel, so what?’ replied the PM.
‘He wants to see Tebb, sir.’
‘That would be Gerry,’ declared Fitzgibbon, with a sigh. ‘He’s a hothead, but he’s mainly harmless. I’ll send him on his way.’
‘No,’ replied the PM. ‘Let him in, I want to speak to him.’
Mrs. Collier spoke into her phone and a few moments later a rangy, and completely bald man entered. He aggressively cast an eye over the room and its occupants, including the Prime Minister.
The PM rose to his feet: ‘Hi, I’m–’
‘I know who you are,’ replied Jones-Evison,’ where the fuck is Tebb!’ He continued to scan the room.
‘That’s what we are endeavouring to ascertain, Mr. Jones-Evison,’ replied the PM.
‘Gerry,’ replied Jones-Evison, focusing hard on the PM for the first time. He did not seem overawed. He glanced at the PM’s drink. ‘Pete got you on the piss, has he?’
‘Alright, that’s enough, you’re outa–’ began Fitzgibbon.
‘No!’ interjected the PM. ‘Gerry, calm down, take a seat. I want to talk to you. Peter, fetch this fellow a drink, would you? It’s on m
e.’
‘Pint of your scrumpy, – Peter,’ Jones-Evison sneered at Fitzgibbon.
The barman reluctantly returned to the bar and grabbed a large wooden pump; a pint of cloudy cider duly arrived and Jones-Evison knocked it back with gusto.
‘Cheers!’ he said, turning to the PM: ‘Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’ This guy certainly had plenty of chutzpah!
‘Why do you want to see Tebb?’ asked the PM, calmly.
‘Err, to knock his block off!’
‘And why would you want to do that?’
‘He’s just trashed my combine harvester!’
This provoked a wave of titters from the eavesdropping punters and Jones-Evison glared at them furiously. ‘He zapped it with some kind of industrial taser device and now it’s completely buggered. It’s not even mine! I’m just hiring it! This will cost me an arm and a leg. Correction: this will cost Tebb an arm and a leg – literally!’
More titters, some of which emerged from the cat. The PM suppressed the urge to join in: ‘Alright, once again, calm down, Gerry. Why did Tebb do this?’
Jones-Evison was ready to launch into another diatribe but his face turned blank. He clearly did not know or understand the motive, and presumably had not thought that far. He remained silent, fuming.
‘How do you know Tebb?’
Jones-Evison shook his head: ‘Turned up here a couple of days ago. Been causing trouble ever since. Even Pete threw him out at one stage, but, for some reason, he was allowed back.’
‘Is he here on his own?’ asked the PM.
‘No, he’s with a woman, but I don’t think they’re an item.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Err, I’m not sure, but yes, I think so.’
‘He came with this cat as well, didn’t he?’
‘What cat?’
‘That–’ began the PM, pointing, but the cat had mysteriously vanished. ‘Never mind. We’ve been led to believe Tebb’s in that “communal hall” there, but we–’
‘Right!’ said Jones-Evison, making ready to storm the communal hall.
‘Not so fast!’ shouted Mrs. Collier, grabbing his collar and forcing him back.
‘I was about to say,’ said the PM: ‘we have some important business with him, first. And so you need to stay out of our way, right? Or do I have to have you arrested?’
Jones-Evison slumped onto a barstool but said nothing. He nodded weakly at the PM.
‘Good. Mrs. Collier, Marcus. We’re going in there.’
The PM gingerly entered the hall, expecting trouble, but was in fact rather disappointed to find the room empty, or apparently empty.
‘Marcus?’
‘There’s no one in here. No spiders either,’ confirmed McManus. ‘Wait, there’s that weird cat again!’
The cat sat upon the central large table, watching them.
‘Oh, hello again!’ said the PM, with a smile. ‘Gerry too much for you as well, eh? Don’t blame you.’
The cat continued to regard the Prime Minister but did not react to his words.
‘Hmm,’ said the PM, to no one in particular. He began to study the room; it confirmed Fitzgibbon’s earlier statement about the so-called “croppies”: images of elaborate crop circles covered most of the wall space and several more had been scattered over the table. ‘Does MI6 have anything on crop circles, Mrs. Collier?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir. Personally speaking, I’ve always considered them to be nothing more than manmade hoaxes.’
‘Yeah, me too, but, if our friend here and his accomplices are interested in them, then maybe there’s more to this phenomenon than we realized.’
‘Possibly so, sir,’ replied Mrs. Collier, studying the images. ‘Some of them are rather impressive.’
The PM and the others continued to mill around the room for a few minutes.
‘Why did you invite us in here?’ the PM eventually enquired of the cat.
‘Prime Minister!’ It was McManus, furtively pointing behind the PM to the door that led back to the bar; the PM instinctively turned. Standing by the door: the woman, Tebb, the trapdoor spider – they all observed him intently.
‘How did you get past Gerry?’ was all the PM could think of saying, as he addressed Tebb.
‘Never mind him,’ replied Tebb. ‘Trouble at mill!’ he added, in a cod Yorkshire accent. He pointed towards the large sheet of paper grasped firmly in the woman’s hand. She suddenly marched forward, past the PM and the others, and pinned the sheet to the opposite wall without uttering a word. The PM could now clearly see the image of yet another crop circle: complex, somewhat incoherent, and huge.
Everyone viewed it in silence.
***