As the sluggish days pass the enormity of what’s happened and what lies ahead slowly seeps into Mark’s mind. Suddenly clarity snaps in. Mark knows what he must do, he sees the only way to extricate himself and simultaneously hit back at Frobenius. He begins to formulate a plan but knows he needs helps to execute it. Exhausted he sits and stares into space repeatedly chewing over the questions.
There are some immediate problems to be addressed, he has no mobile phone, no contact details from his mobile and nobody recognises him or believes a word he says. Time passes slowly. Staring out of the window he is vaguely aware of sound the passing of the traffic, bird song, squawking parakeets braying squirrels and squabbling foxes at night.
During the day the there is a continuous stream of heavy construction traffic to a near by site. He ponders the redevelopment of London for whom? The construction company shareholders? “But how. . . And who. . .” In the depths of this daydream the mantra is interrupted “Eddie the Eel” Mark whispers. Another 10 minutes pass, “but how can I get his number?” Indeterminately, an idea crystalizes.
Having retrieved his papers and pen, with which he’s been writing his experience of the transfer, Mark repositions an old, leather-bound single armchair at the upstairs window and watches the London traffic chug past, blissfully unaware of his circumstances, waiting for construction vehicles. Through failing eyesight and diminished wits Mark writes down the telephone numbers on the sides of some of the large, heavy vehicles, 3 digits at a time.
As the dusk settles he has the numbers, permutations and combinations, for eight different businesses operating in the London area through haulage, plant, cement and demolition.
First thing the following day, excitedly, Mark begins ringing round the construction companies but nobody picks up, some much for construction starting early, well not in the office anyway.
Finally, just after dawn, an answer, unhelpfully they don’t know who Eddie is and certainly don’t have his number. This is also true of the second & third response. Mark feels his initial hope evaporating into his veins and sliding out through his lungs and toes. The same with the fourth but Mark still has the presence of mind to ask if they have the number for Stain Construction PLC, the company he last remembers the Eel working for. Pleased to get rid of this crockety old codger and his weird request the telephonist hands over Stain’s headquarters number with a summarily “You could just look it up on the internet!”
“Ha, Ourselves!”, Mark crackled remembering the common but accurate bastardisation of Stain Construction PLC’s motto “We are here to help”.
Under the pretext of being a disgruntled neighbour of one of Eddie’s sites, god knows there must be no end of those, he calls Stain’s central office, the receptionist gently assures Mark that ‘the relationship with all residents neighboring any of our project sites is always at the forefront of our considerations and always be taken into account when planning and executing our works” and Eddie will call him back at the earliest available opportunity.
Success! Mark slumps back into his armchair & awaits the Eel’s call.
Recalling the days spent on various construction sites with Eddie the Eel. The Eel is an “expert” in demolition and pushing things through with out due consideration & planning permission. It’s his slipperiness in work dealings that earned him his Eel moniker, but basically he’s a perpetual liar and a right wanker.
The following day Mark dare not leave his perch in the armchair bearing down on the phone for fear of missing the Eel’s call. Over the hours the heightened excitement takes it toll on the old man’s physiology and he slips in to an optimistic dream.
It’s ringing, it’s ringing! March snatches the receiver from it cradle.
“Hello” nothing “Hello, Hello!”
“Hello? Mr Frobenius, we are getting some signals you have a virus infection on your computer’s IP address,” the distant voice of a scammer in a call centre on the other side of the world.
“Fuck off! Get off this line!” Mark slams the phone down and continues cursing.
The days pass, optimism and the telephone scammers become draining over the week. Mark worries when he recalls Stain to ask for the Eel he might miss Eddie’s call and the receptionists are clearly becoming bored of the “Is Eddie there?” game.
Another call, with his anxiety flaring Mark, against his better judgment, angrily engages in a war of words with the phone scammers.
“Just, fuck off!”
“Now Mr Turner, there’s no need for that”
“Eddie?”
“Yes, Mr Turner Eddie MacSpanner from Stain Construction PLC. You asked me to call.”
“Eddie, it’s me Mark Turner”.
“Well Mr Turner, I’m afraid to say what you think happened didn’t happen and Stain were not involved. If you care to look on the planning portal you’ll see we have the appropriate planning permissions.”
“Eddie! Shut the fuck up! It’s me. . . Mark Turner!”
Not stopping for breathe the Eel ploughed on, “If you’re going to be difficult Mr Turner I can tell you Liability can not be linked to us! And even if you could it’s very difficult to prove. . .”
“Eel! Eddie! Eddie the Eel! We worked together on the Catford School site.”
“Eh?” Eddie was momentarily thrown from his well-rehearsed and well-worn patter.
“Where we opened up a second site entrance and we went in through that residential area to reach it, shaking the fuck out of everything along the way and pissing everybody off.”
“Eh, so you’re complaining about Stain PLC?”
“No mate, I need your help.”
“Oh, yeah, Mark Turner, “The Highwayman, you were to stoned to drive a dipper and tumbled into an excavation giving me an enormous mountain of paperwork . . . It’s coming back to me now. What can I do for you, Highway? Old Bill finally caught up with you?”
“No it’s much worse than that.”
“Shit, really? You don’t sound so good”.
“I ain’t Eddie, that’s why I need your help” a wave of emotion flood Mark’s nervous system. Relief at making contact but also the enormity of the prospect of what he was about to do.
“I ain’t so good Eddie. I need as much gear as you can lay your hands on, brown, Charlie, E, Acid the lot! Don’t worry about the money, I’ve got shit loads”
“Really? The Highway I know never had any. Who’ve you turned over?”
“Look, I can give 5 times as much as the going rate. Bring as much as you can.”
“OK. But what are we looking at.”
“Enough to kill me.”
“Ha. OK, mate shouldn’t be a problem. When do you need it?”
“Today?”
“Can’t to today. I’m up town for an awards ceremony. They are giving me a prize!”
“Shit. More awards for lying and criminality?”
“Yeap, you know me.”
OK, how about tomorrow?”
“OK. You still by that boozer on the south circular”
“No. I’ve moved to er.” Mark struggled to remember where he was “244 Sydenham Hill. On the corner by the bus stop”
“Yeah? I know the area, we’ve got a works site up there. But, that can’t be right, as I recall they are big old properties up there. You must have suddenly gone a long way up in the world.”
“Yeah. Let’s just say I inherited the place”.
“Right, whatever you say mate. So how does 6 pm tomorrow sound.”
“Great and can you bring some accelerant ‘n’ all.”
“What sort of party are you planning?”
“Bring enough to burn a large house down.”
“Christ, I don’t hear from you for ages now this shit! OK.”
“Can get your number.”
“Sure” Mark careful wrote the number down. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you tomorrow at six. I look forward to it.”
“You won’t let me down now?”
“Nah – don’t worry, I’ll be there”
“Thanks, man.”
Mark was expectant but quite anxious about the following day, so much so he was quite pissed well before Eddie was due to arrive. Eventually, in the late afternoon he passed out in the arm chair. Waking up after a couple of hours, it was getting dark, Mark apprehensively checked the time.
Fuck it’s 6:45 where is he? Mark made his way over to the window and peered into the gloom. Fuck maybe I missed him.
Mark frantically calls the number he’d written down.
“Eddie?”
The voice of a woman, “Sorry, you’ve go the wrong number.”
Slowly and deliberately Mark redialed the number. “Hello?” the same voice. Stunned he replaced the receiver.
Eddie drove slowly along Sydenham Hill. The large houses were set well back from the road and enclosed in high brick walls & their number were difficult to make out. Seeing Number 44 Eddie pulls up onto the broad pavement in front of the high iron gates which have accumulated piles of autumn leaves in front of them. “This can’t be right”. As he moves to withdraw his phone to call Mark, the iron gates lurch forward, beginning to open. Across the gravel forecourt the one of the large arched main doors slowly open to reveal a rather anxious old man. “What the fuck?” Eddie frowned and called the Mark’s number. As it rang the old man waved him into the courtyard, scowling and swearing Eddie inched the car onto the gravel, parking in the middle of the forecourt for ease of exit and got out. Eddie is a rotund man with hair the colour and texture of straw sprawled above his doughy faced. He always wears a light blue fleece jacket, emblazoned with the logo of the Stain PLC construction company. His short legs mean the dark blue jeans he also always wear are ill fitting with large turn ups resting on top the ever present clumpy, beige boots. Behind him the automatic gate began to close. On the road a 383 to The Elephant passes, the light from the top deck blazing against the settling dusk.
“Eddie good to see you. Come on in.”
This old codger knows my name, thought Eddie, scrunching over the gravel towards the door.
Mark shows Eddie into the front room. Coming into the brightly lit room from the darkness caused Eddie squint.
“Make yourself comfortable Eddie. Drink? Gotta some smoke?”
“Yeah, got any brandy?”
“Yeah, Courvoisier?” Mark went over to the drinks cabinet set in an otherwise almost entirely empty teak shelving unit.
“Great. Remy Martin?”
The Eel tipped out his smoking equipment on to a low round table and eased himself into the armchair next to the window, and surveyed his surroundings with a degree of curiosity. “Well, this is . . . interesting. . ..” He started rolling a joint.
Mark returned with two large brandys sloshing around in his feeble hands. Placing them down on the low, round table he was relieved to be free of the burden.
“Cheers, fellah” Eddie muttered absent mindedly, “Nice place you’ve got here. So how did you say you know Mark again? You sound similar, so you’re a relative of some sort, right?”
Mark sank into the opposing chair, fixing Eddie with a contemplative gaze he composed himself for the all important answer. They sat in silence for a moment. The only sound was the rumble of traffic on the over the boundary wall.
“You are Essex Eddie, The Eel, Mr Fuckin’ Fix it, right?”
“I am indeed, mate. This is all very nice and everything but I’ve got no idea who you are and what game you’re playing. I am here to see Mark.”
The old man smiled & slowly raised his hand to his chest, “Remember our conversation last night about the school redevelopment in Catford? These are things only I can know? You see Eddie, I am Mark.” He weakly beat his chest twice with his fist, “Mark Turner as I live and breathe. As you can see, I am massively fucked up, which is why I need your help”.
Eddie exhaled hard and laughed, “This is fucking genius! Mark always was a funny c***. I’m laughing my fucking arse of here. As I say, you certainly sound like him, it’s uncanny but enough messing around old fellah, I want to get down to whatever business it is that Mark promised me here.”
Eddie held out the joint which Mark accepted greadily, taking a couple of deep tugs. “Do you believe in God & the paranormal and all that?”
“As you know I’m in the construction business so naturally all I believe in is money & and making paranormal amounts of it! Parnaormal excuses, unfuckingbelievable stories to get me off the hook and some times, when it goes really well, I might even believe I am God! Anyway, look fellah I’m quite happy to chew the fat and have a toke with you but I” he paused “ I just really need to see the money.”
“Always the same Eddie. Money, money, money! Don’t worry, mate, you’ll get more than well paid outta this but you shouldn’t be so greedy. I got greedy, took a gamble but it didn’t work out and I lost. Big time. . . look at me. . . “
The sound of footsteps in the hall. Eddie turned to see who it is.
“Who’s that?” asked Eddie.
“Eh?”
“In the hall – I saw somebody passing the door. Is that Mark? Highway! In here, mate!”
When there was no reply Eddie was up, out of his head and prowling into the hall.
Mark frowned sat forward, put out the joint, took a sip of his brandy, letting the THC and alcohol wash over him – it had been a long time. Eddie returned moments later, “There’s no fucker there! Must be the weed, I get a heightened awareness and weird visuals with some stuff”. Eddie sat back down, “Now, I’ll try again, where’s Mark?”
“Look I am Mark & there is something in hallway – there always is. Now, roll another one, listen carefully to what I say and try to ignore anything that’s going on in that hallway, alright?”
Eddie tipped the remains of his brandy into his mouth glaring right through the old man. Holding the spirit in his mouth for a second before he swallowing it, “Awright mate, Awright, I’ll hear you out, this is getting interesting.” Eddie took the Remy Martin out the cabinet, refilled the two glasses and sat down, “say what you’ve got to say”.
Mark told the Eddie the whole sorry saga. The room slowly but surely filled with acrid smoke. For once Eddie listened, his gaze fixed on Mark with occasional and increasing nervous glance into the hallway.
“That’s one hell of a story, fellah, and you’re right there is someone wandering that corridor, it’s a great game you and Mark are playing here. I’d forgotten it’s getting towards Halloween”, Eddie’s bravado had all but subsided and he seemed rather on edge.
Eddie drew heavily on his spliff, “So your saying that there was some sort of body swap between you and my old mate Mark & your now Mark but this Frobenius guy has escped in Mark’s body?”
“Yeah, that’s about it.”
“OK. I’ve got no idea what the fuck is going on here and it’s really none of my business but you say you’ve got the wedge, so how can I help?”
“I want to get back at him. . . Frobius, I mean.”
“Seems entirely reasonable to me . . . until the moment you stand up in a Court of Law that is”.
“Exactly, I’ve got nothing to show I am me”.
“Yeah, the whole thing is very weird. What about finger prints?”
“I doubt it. I have Frobius’ decaying body but my own mind. Can they run finger prints tests on whose mind I have?”
“Dunno, like a soul test? I doubt it.”
“When I woke up if found I’d been robbed. He own left me 2 things’ Mark stood up and gathered a loose pile of papers from the teak cabinet. “I got left with all his illnesses, just look at his medical report and all this medication on his repeat prescription”.
Eddie eyed the first papers “Type 1 diabetes? Ouch, I had an uncle with that.”
“I duuno even know what that is but makes me seriously thirsty”. Mark presented him with another set of papers. “Look at theses deeds. I get an allowance of £800 per month or the cost of nursing care. The money turns up in envelopes along with food parcels. Neither of which are much use to me. And when I die the house goes to me, Mark Turner, the c**t!”
The Eel examined the deeds carefully. They show Frobius has agreed to joint ownership of the estate with Mark Turner (where ever he is now) until Frobius’ death. Any change to the policy will require both of their signatures.
“This your signature, Mark”
“Looks like it but I didn’t sign it. He’s got everything stitched up.”
“And the allowance?”
“It’s on the shelf, there.” Mark pointed at a collection of padded envelopes on the cabinet. “I’ve not touched a penny of it. I can’t. It’s yours if you help me.”
“Whow, I’m not in to end of life care, fellah. At any price.”
“Look Eddie, I’ve had enough. There is no way out. It want it to end. . . and afterwards, I want you to torch this place – it’s the only way I can hit back at the bastard for this fucking horrendous swindle”.
“Hence the accelerant,” knowing what was required of him and having seen the money Eddie had relaxed a little and was rolling another, “I knew this was going to be interesting when you mentioned the accelerant.”
“So you can help?” Mark struggle not to beg.
“Sure I can help,” Eddie lit up, “Ok, but let’s get comfortable first, eh? So you you get no visitors or anything?”
“No, you’re the first person I’ve seen since I woke up here. I haven’t even seen the person who delivers the envelopes or the food boxes. I’ve no appetite so that food’s just piling up in the kitchen, help yourself Mr Stain!”
“Easy! Where’s this Frobius geezer now? He seems rather dangerous.”
“I think he’s in a nut house somewhere. He turned up here one day (WHEN) with Tara and some doctors.”
“So you do it yourself – an overdose? I torch the gaff and hope my plates aren’t caught on camera? I don’t know Mark, this is a pretty serious thing you’re asking. I’m no priest or anything, I don’t know anything about, er, what are they called. . . Last rights and that. So do you have any last requests? A will or anything?”
“Nah, just the gear. . .)
I’ve written what happened down,” Mark gestured to a pile of notes on the cabinet “All I ask is you give them to Tara, to explain what happened in this horrendous transfer trick pulled by Frobenius”.
“OK mate, I ll see she gets them.”
“Anything else?”
“No,” Mark shook his head weakly, “That’s it I’ve nothing else. I just need the gear.”
Handing control of the joint over to Mark, and finishing his drink, Eddie drew the curtains before headed out to the car returning with a large bag and couple of large metal canisters. Putting the canisters down in the corner of the room he opened the bag on the table in front of Mark taking the joint as Mark lent forward to look in the holdall. “You pays your money, and you takes your pick.” Moving over to cabinet Eddie examined the contents of the envelope before picking up a champagne bottle “So is this for me?” Mark rummaged eagerly in the bag. Eddie struck him a fierce blow to the temple with the champagne bottle.
Mark slumped forward over the bag, which Eddie then removed from under him.
“Why use my dangerous drugs when you can use your fucking own? You clown!”
Eddie headed into the kitchen, finally finding the fitted fridge and returned with some of the old man’s medical supplies. Eddie examined them, “Insulin, that should do the trick. 5 vials. More than enough!” Eddie administered the contents of the syringes, one by one.
As Mark slipped in the convulsions of insulin poisoning Eddie took stock of the house. Seeing what could be immediately ferreted away. The Eel looked in on Mark occasionally, impassive “Let it go old man, your race is run”.
Elsewhere, Mark finds himselfwalking along a suburban street. It’s a warm early evening some time ago. He begins to notice people dressed strangely. Some acting suspiciously, furtively looking over their shoulders. Apparent strangers greet one another. If you know, you know. The density of freaks increases. What is this, a circus, a funfair? Mark realises he has stumbled into a gathering, a rave. The smell of petrol. Screams. Fire! Fire licking the sky. An enormous blaze visible from darkest Kent – (Just like the great fire that destroyed the Crystal Palace!) Oh no there is a figure emerging from the flames . . . Frobius!
Finally the frantic thrashing and breathing stopped. Eddie addressed the corpse, “Thank fuck, I thought I was gonna have to give you some of stuff for a bit there!” Despite, having murdered another person for money, turning all the lights on and the house being clearly empty Eddie felt enormously uneasy. He felt as if somebody was watching him. Waiting. Was it Mark? Was it a set up? It didn’t matter the job was done. . .
Eddie put in in a call to locksmith as he removed from the house of what was useful and necessary, the high boundary wall was of great assistance and comfort. The rest could be done after the guy was gone. It was getting towards dawn as the locksmith was finishing. Having worked in some pretty strange and dangerous situations across the capital the locksmith did the job quickly and efficiently but he certainly didn’t like the heavy atmosphere about the house. The locksmith noticed that despite half-heartedly attempting to engage him in causal chat about how the locksmith was a poacher turned game keeper and why not just remove one lock on one Mayfair jewelry store and never work again, Eddie kept his distance from the front door, never going inside even when the job was done. The Locksmith was amply rewarded for the work and Eddie suggested there was no need to register or talk about cash in hand jobs. As the locksmith put his van on the road Eddie sat in his cark on the dark forecourt beneath the unlit house.
The Eel drives down the hill to the café where Tara, Marks partner, works the following morning. What better time could there be? Always worth a chance.
The café is half way down Sydenham Hill in row of higgledy-piggledy shops on the ground floor of building of assorted ages, the old High Street. The Eel is reasonably regular at Café Jasine, after all construction is energy consuming, hard, hungry work so you need a lot of carbohydrate on board and you can’t just sit in the boozer all day, can you?
It’s still early and the café is half full but he takes a seat at the back near the kitchen. Tara is at work behind the counter. A different waitress comes to take his order some old biddy. Loudly he orders. “Full English with 4 pieces of white bread and large tea please luv. It’s been a long night, good and proper,” before adding “and on a week day!” He looks around grinning. The other diners are interested. The Eel fetches an already dog eared newspaper and pretends to read. . . Waiting. . .
Eventually, she walks past his formica table.
“Tara?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m an old friend of Mark’s”
“Oh yeah, Eddie the Eel. Sorry, I didn’t recognise you. Don’t you guys generally have your on works café?”
“No problem. The nosh is way better here. Where’s Mark got to these days? I haven’t seen him in ages. . . .”
The Eel look up expectantly from his bacon sarnie.
“Haven’t you heard? He’s went missing for 4 daysand turned up in a mental hospital.”
Tara quickly recounted bits of the story, the way she saw it.
Eddie felt a feeling of calm control, he had Mark’s written version of events in the car. He could bring them up during a return visit, somehow.
“You don’t go and see him?”
“Not any more. It’s like he’s a different person. He is not interested in me no more. They tried to shake him out of it with some sort of day release thing. He ended up going up Sydenham Hill and talking to some old guy in a big old house where he’d done some decorating work. This old guy up on the hill seemed to be more like the old Mark, only he was ancient, I don’t know if they’re related or something. The whole thing’s really weird”.
“Sounds it. So you’ve never been back to see this old fellah again?”
“No why would I?”
“I dunno, it’s just curious. Can anybody go and see him? Mark I mean.”
“You can ask. Last time I was there was in the Green unit with Dr Chadwick – a nice but slightly strange guy” They might be welcome visits from old friends,” there was a more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice “and maybe jolt his memory and make him remember”.
“OK, I might just do that. If you think it might help.”
Eddie pushed his plate to the center of the table, stood up & pulled a cigarette packet out from his jacket pocket. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around,” he said to nobody in particular as Tara was all ready back at work in the kitchen. Outside his lit his cigarette and exhaled, “Poor old Mark. He’s really missed out, there”.
Eddie started in the direction of his car, taking out his smart phone to put in a call to Paul O’Connor a Senior Project Manager in the Programme Management department of the Local Authority.
In an airless non-descript office at the Town Hall a man with a fat rodentine face slowly turned it to eye his mobile phone from below his protruding/furrowed brow, smelling out the caller’s name. Paul O’Connor always looks inebriated even when his is sober – which is rarely. A big, brutal beast of incredibly low intelligence. An outcomes person.
“Eddie, what can do for you?”
“Paul, I just got some prime new property that needs redeveloping! It’s prime green space at the top of Sydenham Hill. I can see the “tag line” now “Imagine waking up in the fresh air with a view of the London skyline”! Would the Council be able to help with that?”
“Brilliant, of course, sounds like something we could” drooled the sycophantic public servant.
“Got some issues with ownership but I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t work out together. “Are you free today?”
“I can be, for you mate”
“I’ll come over. I’ve got a few thing I need to sort out first so how does 4:30 sound?”
“Cool you know where to find me.”
“The Rye?”
“If you’re buying, for a change”.
“I will be. I will be mate, we’re sitting on a fucking goldmine here!”
Pulling into the traffic and starting up the hill the Eel mused this Sydenham Hill development was perfect, it could make him millions. It could be the last job! He could retire to a charming mock Tudor mansion somewhere near Colchester for a life of recreation. . . recreational drug use. Nah, the real buzz is in the deals, cutting corners, cheating, taking the piss, pissing people off, and generally doing a good job! The Eel grinned and pulled hard on his fag, grinning at his reflection in the rear view mirror and feeling more than a bit buzzed, some visuals might help with the drive.
There was a big concrete pour to be finalized that morning and Eddie had decided to clear the site for an inspection before the pour, not for the first time some of the boys on site could be trusted to help dispose of the body, at the right price, but had to act quickly. Eddie didn’t like things hanging around but he did like to take chances. Accelerating up Sydenham Hill Eddie thought of Tara and lit another cigarette looking back at the café in his rear view mirror. What the fuck is that!? Something flashed across the back seat. A nasty visual. He saw the courier driver on the wrong side of the road hurtling towards him too late. Swerving to avoid the motorbike, Eddie’s black BMW slammed head long into a 40 tonne tipper truck turning out of a narrow residential road, it’s sight obscured by a queue of other massive vehicles waiting to access the site. It had delivered to one of the Eels own sites and was operating in the narrow old road with out planning permission or correct insurance. A weird scene greeted the investigators. In the wreckage they found the deeds to Sydenham Hill house, Mark’s garbled notes, a large quantity of Class A drugs and a mummified body, that DNA analysis revealed to be that of a 200 year old trader of Dutch origin. It was fortunate, unlikely, that the accelerant had leaked back down the hill with out igniting.
When Eddie failed to show up after at the Rye, Paul O’Connor ordered another beer and went out for a cigarette. Standing in the doorway he lit up and rang Eddie’s number. He was puzzled as to why Eddie’s phone was switched off. In this mild fog of confusion he did not see the scooter & gunmen approach. A random and motiveless murder could only be the consequence of mistaken identity a Met spokesman said later, adding why would any one want to murder a Local Council official?
