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CHAPTER 1

First Interview – The Woman

'The usual terms?'

Her irregular employer rarely deigned to answer questions directly. His slender fingers drummed the tabletop. 'Longer and more remote than usual.'

'Time is no problem,' replied the actress. 'They don't write for women my age any more.'

He still repelled her – that unnatural white bloom to the skin, the merciless eyes – but there were compensations, and not only the money. She had stayed on a yacht, better described as a floating mansion, in the South China Sea, a chalet in the Dolomites and a palazzo in Florence, all his properties, and she had heard talk of others. She picked up his second qualification.

'You said "remote"?'

'Very – but in England.' She would have registered disappointment, but for the intensity of his reply and the surprising notion that England could boast anywhere truly remote. 'You're discreet. You impress the locals. That is all.'

The actress smiled. Impressing came naturally to her. 'The same role, same costumes?'

'Of course.'

Here the interview would normally end, but she could not resist the burning question. 'Where in England?'

'Rotherweird.'

She failed to suppress a look of surprise. 'But they let nobody in. They're apart, they're different.'

'I appear to be an exception.'

'Your money is the exception.'

'True – period glaziers, wood restorers and plasterers come expensive. Prepare to be lady of an Elizabethan manor house.' He stood up before continuing; no more questions, the gesture said. 'One detail – can you play maternal?'

'Play maternal' – he had such an unsettling way of putting things. She nodded, knowing her beauty did not touch him. The dynamic between them had always been wholly transactional.

His cold left hand clasped hers – the wrist birdlike, the grip like iron. 'Done then,' he said, handing over a cheque by way of advance – a colossal sum for playing in public a wife he had never had.

Second Interview – The Boy

The boy stood outside Vauxhall Station facing the bridge across an array of traffic lanes, pedestrian lights and bus stops. It was bitterly cold and still dark at 6.20 in the morning. He would be on time. He fingered the switchblade in his pocket. If the meet turned out to be some kind of pervert, he would pay.

Ignoring the underpass, he vaulted the railings instead. A young suit stumbled towards the station, looking the worse for wear. Noting the bulge in his jacket pocket, he toyed with taking him, but decided against. He was off his patch, and alone.

The hand-drawn map directed him to the riverside flats west of the bridge with the instruction 'Press P' at the point of arrival. He peered up – posh, real posh. The boy feared that 'P' meant parking, having no intention of getting into a stranger's car, but this 'P' sat on top of the row of silver buttons. Anxiety turned to excitement. He smelled opportunity. Someone rich was looking his way. The world might label him a victim of his background, but he was not a victim of anyone or anything; he was himself, a force, going places. But the tag did have its uses: here was another fool, determined to cure him.

He pressed the button and a smooth voice spoke from the grille: 'Go to the lift. Press "P" again.'

The door clicked open. Where the boy came from, lifts were rare and never worked when you found them. They were places for meets and dealing and graffiti. This lift had a carpet that swallowed your shoes, and cut-glass mirrors. The ascent was silent, its movement undetectable as the numbers beside the door flared and faded.

The boy walked into a lobby and gawped at the stunning view, sallow light staining the river as the city began to stir. There were more cars now, and the occasional bicycle. Above the table in front of him hung a picture of the same river in evening light with a small brass plate – Monet 1901. Beneath it a bronze frog stared straight ahead.

The boy was right to be apprehensive. He had been watched. The tall man bent over the telescope had fair, almost albino skin, close-cropped silver hair and a high forehead. The lines in his face were fine, as if age had been kept at bay by some rarefied treatment. His hands were long, almost skeletal, the fingernails manicured. His Indian-style jacket, dark trousers and open-necked silk shirt mirrored the easy elegance of his penthouse flat. The boy did not know it, but he had chosen the art and furniture himself; he frowned on wealthy men who used advisors for taste.

He polished the telescope lens, replaced the cap and turned to the internal cameras. The boy was crude, but build and face held promise. He pressed the internal intercom: 'Bring him in – and remove the knife.'

The boy was disarmed by a young man with a minimum of fuss; he knew when not to mix it up. He was ushered into an office with computers standing in ranks on a glass table on one side of the room. In company with the modern were artefacts and pictures that meant nothing to him, except that they screamed 'money'. His host sprang from an armchair and the boy revised his expectations: this was no do-gooder. The lips had a heartless curl to them.

Unsettled, he sought to assert himself. 'What am I 'ere for?' He was used to staring people out – barristers, magistrates, child psychiatrists, social workers, policemen, rivals on his patch – but he evaded these remorseless eyes. Worse, the man did not speak. The boy was used to dealing with people who came to the point – twenty quid, two kilos, guilty or not guilty, who to cut; business talk.

When it did emerge, the voice was as firm as the handshake. 'A drink, perhaps?'

'I'm not 'ere for a drink.'

'Coffee for me,' said the old man, 'medium sweet. And macaroons for our friend – with nothing to drink.' The assistant left the room. 'I appreciate your coming,' continued the man.

'My coming for what?'

'Do sit down.'

The boy did so, noticing that each chair arm ended in a predatory animal's head.

The man searched his face before offering a hint of a smile, apparently satisfied. 'What are you here for? A fair question. Call it a role more than a task.'

The boy hated smart talk. His nostrils twitched at the mild oily fragrance to the old man's hair.

'You play a part – understand?'

'I dunno what you're on about.'

The man held up a list of the boy's convictions – Court, date, offence and sentence. 'Impersonation, forgery, obtaining money by deception ...' The list covered several pages – an unedifying mix of dishonesty and violence.

The boy played the victim card. 'Things have been 'ard. 'ad no chance, did I?'

'You had plenty of chances. You just got caught.'

Now the boy knew he was here to be used, not cured. 'Whaddya want, then?'

'I have lost something rare and valuable. You need only know it was taken from me long ago.'

'Then you gotta pay.'

'I haven't got to do anything.'

The assistant entered with a tray and the fragrance of fresh baked macaroons permeated the room. The boy grabbed one. His host followed, picking up his with a slow, easy elegance.

'If I get no money –' interrupted the boy, his mouth half full.

The old man sipped his coffee, quite unhurried. 'You reject my terms before you've heard them?'

The boy bit his lip. ''ow much then?' he asked.

'Enough for a son of mine.'

Son of mine! An expletive died in the boy's throat. Perhaps, after all ...

''ow much is that?'

'Think thousands.'

A posh phrase came to him: son and heir. 'You got other kids?'

'My wife and I are, regrettably, not blessed.'

So he wanted a son – but why choose him? 'What about my probation officer?'

'The adoption papers are ready. You have only to sign.'

'All this to find – what?'

The old man ignored the question. 'You will be transformed – new name, new clothes, new voice.'

From his host saying nothing of substance, the conversation was now moving alarmingly fast. 'What if I refuse?'

'Make that choice and you'll find out.'

'We'd be staying 'ere?'

'For a month or two, while we polish you up, then to a country town. You've never been to the country. Experience is a form of power, Rodney.'

'Rodney?'

'"Rodney" suits him, don't you think?' the old man said to the assistant, adding, 'With work.'

'Yes, indeed, Sir Veronal,' the assistant agreed.

Sir, Sir Veronal – the boy had never met a 'sir' before, nor indeed a 'Veronal'.

'Why are you doing this?' asked the boy.

'I'm a philanthropist,' explained Sir Veronal. 'I give.'

Not without taking, thought the boy.

'And when I make generous offers, I like an answer.'

The offer was a no-brainer, but the boy's desire to win ran deep. 'You might be on, if you tell me what I'm looking for.'

The lines on Sir Veronal's face fleetingly looked like scars. 'It's something you'll always have, even when it's gone. Mine was stolen.' Sir Veronal rose to his feet. 'Naturally, there are conditions. Violence is usually an admission of failure. As they say on the medicine bottle: use only as instructed. And remember, I hire you to listen – in school, in the street, wherever.'

'School –?'

'Children know more than adults think, but they lack discretion.' Sir Veronal smiled; discretion was too rich a word for the boy in his present state. 'Meaning, when to keep their mouths shut. You must become adept at worming your way in.'

A beautiful woman glided into the room, tall, middle-aged, with marble-white skin and dark hair held back by a golden slide. Her eyes had a striking tint of violet, and she had a way of standing as if she had practised the pose for maximum elegance.

She spoke quietly, but with a penetrating clarity. 'Welcome home, Rodney.'

'Lady Imogen,' explained Sir Veronal.

Rodney held out a tentative hand as Sir Veronal allowed himself another smile. The unruly colt was broken.

'We want an English boy of breeding, style without ostentation. First we clothe you properly. Then we start on that voice.'

The boy nodded obligingly. His benefactors were clearly mad, and there for the taking. Play along, he said to himself, just play along.

Third Interview – The Teacher

Jonah Oblong's career as history teacher at Moss Lane Comprehensive – his first post – was dramatic, but short. When asked about his predecessor, the Head had looked at his shoes and muttered, 'Fled to Australia.'

Oblong soon understood why. The class boasted seven different first languages, three intimidating bullies and four pupils with parents hostile to the idea of their offspring learning anything they did not know themselves.

Then there was the problem of Oblong's appearance, which lay not in the face, which was pleasing enough, but in the bandyness of his legs and their disproportionate length. With the gangly build came clumsiness, an attribute that, whilst endearing in other contexts, did not assist in the pursuit of class discipline.

Oblong began well – his re-creation of the Great Fire of 1666 with a cardboard city in the school car park achieved a hitherto unknown interest in England's remote past – but the mantle soon slipped. His division of the class into Roundheads and Cavaliers led to two broken windows, and a King Canute demonstration caused a flood.

Conventional methods fared no better. After three minutes beside the blackboard, Conway, head of the Wyvern Shanks gang and no respecter of authority other than his own, interrupted. 'Can't we do the World Cup?'

'It's not history.'

'Why not?'

'It hasn't happened yet.'

'What about the last one?'

'Bor – ring,' whined two girls at the front.

'It's not on the syllabus.'

'He don't know,' crowed Conway, 'Ob-bog don't know who won.'

'Brazil ...?' guessed Oblong.

Guffaws all round.

Conway's water bomb hit Oblong on the shoulder, and something snapped in that gentle psyche. Oblong took the plastic water jug from his desk and poured the contents over Conway's head, just as the School Inspector walked in. Sensing his fate, the class behaved faultlessly for the rest of the lesson and said 'sorry' (in so many words) at the end – even Conway.

At the Employment Exchange, he was labelled overqualified or underqualified for every vacancy except teaching, where the lack of a single reference was proving fatal. The woman behind the counter handed him a dog-eared copy of the Times Educational Supplement, adding with a wan smile, 'You never know.'

He invested two pounds from his diminishing reserves in a small cappuccino and went to the local park. The TES revealed a demand for scientists and an even greater demand for references. He persevered to the last page of the classifieds, where a square edged in black like a funeral notice advertised the following: ROTHERWEIRD SCHOOL – History teacher wanted – modern ONLY – CV, photograph, no references.

Like everyone else, Oblong had heard of the Rotherweird Valley and its town of the same name, which by some quirk of history were self-governing – no MP and no bishop, only a mayor. He knew too that Rotherweird had a legendary hostility to admitting the outside world: no guidebook recommended a visit; the County History was silent about the place. So: a hoax more likely than not, Oblong concluded.

Nonetheless, he sent in his application that morning, declaring a desire 'to share with my charges all things modern and nothing fusty and old'.

To his astonishment a reply came back by return:

Dear Mr Oblong,

We are impressed by your credentials and priorities. Present yourself for interview in the New Year, 4.pm., 2nd January (pre- term, quiet). Train to Hoy; thereafter a test of your initiative.

Yours most sincerely, Angela Trimble, School Porter

He checked the trains online and found Hoy well served. The station was unexpectedly quaint, with a lovingly preserved clapperboard signal box. Oblong hailed a taxi.

'Rotherweird don't do cars,' responded the taxi driver with a toothless smile.

'I've an interview at four.'

'In Rotherweird? Who are you – the Archangel Gabriel?'

'I'm a teacher.'

'Of what?'

'History.'

The taxi driver looked amused. 'Take a bus to the Twelve-Mile post and then the charabanc.'

'Why can't I take a taxi?'

'The charabanc meets the bus; it don't meet any taxi. Sorry, mate, Rotherweird isn't like other places. Bus stop over there.'

The bus stop sign had a separate plate beneath the more conventional destinations: Rotherweird bus for charabanc, according to need. The bus – an old Volkswagen camper van – arrived minutes later.

'You coming or what?' the driver shouted rudely out of the window. Oblong clambered in.

The van hastened through rolling hills and farmland until, spluttering after an extended climb, it reached a huge spreading oak. Oblong looked round. He could see nothing of note. The driver jabbed a finger in the tree's direction.

'That's the Twelve-Mile post, that's the Rotherweird Valley, and you owe me six quid.'

Oblong paid up. The camper van disappeared in a belch of smoke back the way it had come.

At all points of the compass, hills basked in midwinter sunshine, yet the valley below lay hidden in fog. He was standing on the rim of a giant cauldron in which, somewhere, lurked Rotherweird, and an interview. He found it curious that a place so determined to resist modern transport should insist on a modern historian. He heard a whirring noise, followed by a disembodied voice – a deep, cavernous bass – and snatches of the song it was singing:

'Not all those who wear velvet are good,
My child,
Beware those who like silver, not wood,
My child ...'

Out of the mist lurched an extraordinary vehicle, part bicycle, part charabanc, propelled by pedals, pistons and interconnecting drums. The double bench in the back had a folded canvas hood for protection. The driver wore goggles, which concealed his face but not a shock of flame-red hair. On the side of the charabanc, written in florid green and gold, stretched the words: The Polk Land & Water Company and underneath in smaller letters: Proprietors: B Polk (land) and B Polk (water).

Smoothing greasy fingers down the front of a grease-stained shirt, the driver introduced himself as Boris Polk. 'Seven minutes late – my apologies – damp plugs and visibility nil.'

'It's only that it's gone three and –'

'Time equals distance over speed. I'm not to be confused with Bert – we're identical, but he's first by five minutes. I invent and he administers; he has children, I do not; I chose land and he chose water, which is interesting, 'cos –'

'I've an interview – my only interview –'

'Interview!' exclaimed Boris, raising his goggles to examine his passenger more closely. 'I haven't had one of those since the summer of ... the wet one, now when was that ...?'

'It's at four.' Oblong pointed at his watch for emphasis. 'Four, Mr Polk, that's less than an hour away.'

'Is it now? "Time equals distance over speed" is another way of saying there isn't goin' to be no distance – not with you standing there like a totem pole – because there isn't goin' to be no speed.'

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Excerpted from "Rotherweird"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Andrew Caldecott.
Excerpted by permission of Quercus Editions Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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