Something About Money
by Garry Stanton
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A journalist happens across the story of the century.
_____________________________________________________________________
London, November 2003.
Ok, so I'm sitting in this bar, it's called Monty's Return or Repast or something. It's pretty busy, mostly populated by middle-range suits with the odd girls' night out squawking away in the little booths. The place is trying to look classy and upmarket but the dark red leather is all faux. The last time I had been in there was when I was covering some sorry tale about an ex-employee who had flipped out and had tried to machete the owner. The owner hadn't been around so he had sliced up a few tables and terrified the shit out of the clientèle. He had been stopped when three brave locals had grabbed him and, by all accounts, given him a right good kicking before calling the police. So, anyway, there I am, sipping away pretty unenthusiastically at a half pint of Grolsch and half-heartedly having a go at the codeword puzzle in i when my rendezvous appears. He perches on the high stool next to me at the bar. He seems to know me. He is tall, maybe six-three, with dark ginger hair and a sparse beard. He wears a ratty old sports jacket with a battered looking poppy in the lapel. He's young, maybe thirty. His eyes are out of synch with his tatty image – they are green and bright and wide. He acknowledges me out of the corner of one of those peepers and orders himself a Guinness. As the barman begins to pour it, he takes out a packet of Marlboro and lights up. He does not offer me a beer, just glances disdainfully at the half pint I am eking out. He inhales deeply then puffs it out through his nose, closing his eyes.
“So, you're the reporter. Journalist.” He pronounces the 'j' word as though by merely speaking the word might bring out buboes on his ginger face and armpits. Journalists – the plague word. “What paper are you with again?” His voice is pure public school, though presumably of the old money type, and in this case dosh which is about to run out. Appearances, eh?
“The Chronicle, which you well know seeing as you called me. It's not the News of the Screws but....it's ok,” I plead. Why am I pleading? “Anyway, as I say, you called me. Why me? And what is this great story you have for me?”
In truth, I was wondering just why he had called me, asking for me in particular. I had had no great scoops to date, no big stories. I was just a middling staff writer at a provincial newspaper, trundling along. I do, like many journos, think I have a novel in me – but one that would probably stay there. Ho hum.
He leans back and stretches out his long legs. His trousers seem a bit short, his brown brogues dusty and worn. I repeat my question – what is this all about? I ask him his name, but this is equally non-forthcoming. Finally, he speaks.
“Well, if they still use the word scoop, then I have probably the biggest of the century. In fact, you probably will not believe it. No probably about it.” He shakes his head and examines the floor in wonder. Now I am getting interested.
“Why you?” he continues. “No real reason. Just a feeling that the old Chronicle might benefit from this. And you, well, you're an ok writer.” Praise indeed. So, random luck. I wait, intrigued.
At this point I was thinking: so, is this guy for real, or is he a crank who thinks an exclusive about 'Jaws' Jones getting transferred to Blenkinsopp Rovers from some pub team is newsworthy? Or has he seen cultist types, including local councillors, in the woods sharing goats and each other? The thought depressed me, and I had been here before. Still, there was something about this guy that was different. I am the eternal optimist, an essential quality in my trade. It offsets the equally necessary scepticism which burns its way into your soul and psyche as the years and the words, your own words, grind you into dust.
He twitches. He loosens up his neck. He takes another deep drag on his Marlboro. He turns towards the door of the pub, as if he may have been followed. I feel like an extra in The Third Man.
He then suddenly extinguishes the cigarette and drains the Guinness. He steps up to his full, not inconsiderable height and simply says, “Follow. Now.”
I follow.
I struggle to keep up with him. The weather has turned nasty, squally and increasingly cold. It was only just after 5pm, but quite dark. November in London. The world turns. The shops are selling poppies and Christmas is everywhere. He steps out in front of a black cab just as the rain begins to slap down upon the pavements.
In the taxi, I get some more of the story but whose 'details' only serve to intrigue me more. My green-eyed contact turns out to be one Anthony Blythman- Henderson, the latest in a long line of double-barrelled goons. His words, not mine. He attended Harrow and has some high-profile relatives. The journey is long and difficult. I can see that we are heading from the relative outskirts of the city into the centre. The buildings become progressively more posh. “Soon be there,” he says softly as the soaking streets slice by. He lights up again, offering me one. I politely refuse.
The cab turns a corner, and as it comes to a halt I can make out a street sign: Wilton Crescent.
There are no lifts here. Presumably its loaded residents just have to lift their ancient rich arses up the lovely stairs. We climb to the top floor, and Anthony (call me Tone, old bean) produces a large mortise key which he enters and turns twice. Click, click, and that's when things get really weird.
The stench of the flat hits me as soon as we enter. It is an aroma of old, no, ancient flesh, and shit and sickness and decay. The ceilings are high and ornate, and the hall is huge and impressive. My companion leads me silently into a large Spartan living room in which the stink is not so bad. I am guessing at this point that the subject of this unbelievable scoop is secreted at the other end of the apartment. Still, the smell manages to pervade every corner as if a death has already occurred. I voice my concern, whispering, “Are we too late? Has he already snuffed it..?”
Anthony smirks and replies, “No, it's always like this, old man. And don't you know death has its own special stink? No, he is still with us, embalmed pre-mortis if you like. Let's go...prepare yourself. Fancy a snifter before we go in?” he asks, eyeing up a crystal decanter. I demur. “No, let's just go in. Please.”
I had expected a carer, some health professional to be present but no-one is here. We enter the bedroom where my bounty lies.
He is snoring, lying quite flat on his back. The stench is almost unbearable. Every window is closed. On a small plastic table a mostly-uneaten meal is alive with flies. A small burnt pot with custard remains sits sadly beside the bed. The snoring suddenly stops, and he wakes. Man, this is big, and much too big for The Chronicle. I think of millions of dead people, piles of abandoned clothes and gold fillings and hair. And money.
I can see the ancient man lying quite still, his rheumy eyes staring at the ceiling. He coughs and attempts in vain to rise on one elbow. He exhales weakly and assumes once more his position.
“Well, here he is, old bean. Nothing to do with me, not really. It was my old auntie. She lived in this street and just died in August. She was a big fan of his and agreed to keep him here after he fled from South America. You know, after Eichmann got his? You have heard of the Mitfords?”
Yes, I had.
He was shrivelled, he was shrunken, he was cadaverous. He was, in fact, one hundred and fourteen years old, surely qualifying as one of the world's oldest people. Not that you're likely to find him in the Guinness Book of Records' lists, I thought.
It is probably not necessary to fill in all of the holes, the details. Suffice to say that those great British dynasties the Mosleys and the Mitfords and others like them were, to put it crudely, Nazi lovers. They were keen to help, and did. Rumours had persisted for decades regarding the true fate of the Fuhrer. Eva had died in the bunker, apparently at the hands of her doting new husband but just as he had been about to blow his own head off the door had burst open and there were people there, fanatics you might call them, with a change of clothes and a walking stick and all manner of disguises. They had, miraculously, managed to get him out of Berlin and eventually to Paraguay. Money talks, you see. Money always talks, and loud. Things had changed, though, and the stretching of Adolf Eichmann's neck had been the final straw. Rich English fascists had rescued him again, and here he was. I wonder what the hell he has been doing in this flat, a prisoner. Can the Fuhrer nip to Sainsbury's for a pint of milk?
Anthony is speaking, but I do not hear what he is saying. Something about money.
I thought of death again, and unimaginable cruelty and suffering and ashes and hot places and quicklime pits and I thought of the screams of children. I thought of the dreams and lives of the millions, of humanity splintered. I wondered how it had ever recovered from experiencing what it had, how it had survived teetering on the edge of an abyss. I thought of dead brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers whom I would never have known anyway. With tears beginning to well up, I thought of monsters and pity and guilt. I thought of remorse, and money. God help me, I thought of money.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A journalist happens across the story of the century.
_____________________________________________________________________
London, November 2003.
Ok, so I'm sitting in this bar, it's called Monty's Return or Repast or something. It's pretty busy, mostly populated by middle-range suits with the odd girls' night out squawking away in the little booths. The place is trying to look classy and upmarket but the dark red leather is all faux. The last time I had been in there was when I was covering some sorry tale about an ex-employee who had flipped out and had tried to machete the owner. The owner hadn't been around so he had sliced up a few tables and terrified the shit out of the clientèle. He had been stopped when three brave locals had grabbed him and, by all accounts, given him a right good kicking before calling the police. So, anyway, there I am, sipping away pretty unenthusiastically at a half pint of Grolsch and half-heartedly having a go at the codeword puzzle in i when my rendezvous appears. He perches on the high stool next to me at the bar. He seems to know me. He is tall, maybe six-three, with dark ginger hair and a sparse beard. He wears a ratty old sports jacket with a battered looking poppy in the lapel. He's young, maybe thirty. His eyes are out of synch with his tatty image – they are green and bright and wide. He acknowledges me out of the corner of one of those peepers and orders himself a Guinness. As the barman begins to pour it, he takes out a packet of Marlboro and lights up. He does not offer me a beer, just glances disdainfully at the half pint I am eking out. He inhales deeply then puffs it out through his nose, closing his eyes.
“So, you're the reporter. Journalist.” He pronounces the 'j' word as though by merely speaking the word might bring out buboes on his ginger face and armpits. Journalists – the plague word. “What paper are you with again?” His voice is pure public school, though presumably of the old money type, and in this case dosh which is about to run out. Appearances, eh?
“The Chronicle, which you well know seeing as you called me. It's not the News of the Screws but....it's ok,” I plead. Why am I pleading? “Anyway, as I say, you called me. Why me? And what is this great story you have for me?”
In truth, I was wondering just why he had called me, asking for me in particular. I had had no great scoops to date, no big stories. I was just a middling staff writer at a provincial newspaper, trundling along. I do, like many journos, think I have a novel in me – but one that would probably stay there. Ho hum.
He leans back and stretches out his long legs. His trousers seem a bit short, his brown brogues dusty and worn. I repeat my question – what is this all about? I ask him his name, but this is equally non-forthcoming. Finally, he speaks.
“Well, if they still use the word scoop, then I have probably the biggest of the century. In fact, you probably will not believe it. No probably about it.” He shakes his head and examines the floor in wonder. Now I am getting interested.
“Why you?” he continues. “No real reason. Just a feeling that the old Chronicle might benefit from this. And you, well, you're an ok writer.” Praise indeed. So, random luck. I wait, intrigued.
At this point I was thinking: so, is this guy for real, or is he a crank who thinks an exclusive about 'Jaws' Jones getting transferred to Blenkinsopp Rovers from some pub team is newsworthy? Or has he seen cultist types, including local councillors, in the woods sharing goats and each other? The thought depressed me, and I had been here before. Still, there was something about this guy that was different. I am the eternal optimist, an essential quality in my trade. It offsets the equally necessary scepticism which burns its way into your soul and psyche as the years and the words, your own words, grind you into dust.
He twitches. He loosens up his neck. He takes another deep drag on his Marlboro. He turns towards the door of the pub, as if he may have been followed. I feel like an extra in The Third Man.
He then suddenly extinguishes the cigarette and drains the Guinness. He steps up to his full, not inconsiderable height and simply says, “Follow. Now.”
I follow.
I struggle to keep up with him. The weather has turned nasty, squally and increasingly cold. It was only just after 5pm, but quite dark. November in London. The world turns. The shops are selling poppies and Christmas is everywhere. He steps out in front of a black cab just as the rain begins to slap down upon the pavements.
In the taxi, I get some more of the story but whose 'details' only serve to intrigue me more. My green-eyed contact turns out to be one Anthony Blythman- Henderson, the latest in a long line of double-barrelled goons. His words, not mine. He attended Harrow and has some high-profile relatives. The journey is long and difficult. I can see that we are heading from the relative outskirts of the city into the centre. The buildings become progressively more posh. “Soon be there,” he says softly as the soaking streets slice by. He lights up again, offering me one. I politely refuse.
The cab turns a corner, and as it comes to a halt I can make out a street sign: Wilton Crescent.
There are no lifts here. Presumably its loaded residents just have to lift their ancient rich arses up the lovely stairs. We climb to the top floor, and Anthony (call me Tone, old bean) produces a large mortise key which he enters and turns twice. Click, click, and that's when things get really weird.
The stench of the flat hits me as soon as we enter. It is an aroma of old, no, ancient flesh, and shit and sickness and decay. The ceilings are high and ornate, and the hall is huge and impressive. My companion leads me silently into a large Spartan living room in which the stink is not so bad. I am guessing at this point that the subject of this unbelievable scoop is secreted at the other end of the apartment. Still, the smell manages to pervade every corner as if a death has already occurred. I voice my concern, whispering, “Are we too late? Has he already snuffed it..?”
Anthony smirks and replies, “No, it's always like this, old man. And don't you know death has its own special stink? No, he is still with us, embalmed pre-mortis if you like. Let's go...prepare yourself. Fancy a snifter before we go in?” he asks, eyeing up a crystal decanter. I demur. “No, let's just go in. Please.”
I had expected a carer, some health professional to be present but no-one is here. We enter the bedroom where my bounty lies.
He is snoring, lying quite flat on his back. The stench is almost unbearable. Every window is closed. On a small plastic table a mostly-uneaten meal is alive with flies. A small burnt pot with custard remains sits sadly beside the bed. The snoring suddenly stops, and he wakes. Man, this is big, and much too big for The Chronicle. I think of millions of dead people, piles of abandoned clothes and gold fillings and hair. And money.
I can see the ancient man lying quite still, his rheumy eyes staring at the ceiling. He coughs and attempts in vain to rise on one elbow. He exhales weakly and assumes once more his position.
“Well, here he is, old bean. Nothing to do with me, not really. It was my old auntie. She lived in this street and just died in August. She was a big fan of his and agreed to keep him here after he fled from South America. You know, after Eichmann got his? You have heard of the Mitfords?”
Yes, I had.
He was shrivelled, he was shrunken, he was cadaverous. He was, in fact, one hundred and fourteen years old, surely qualifying as one of the world's oldest people. Not that you're likely to find him in the Guinness Book of Records' lists, I thought.
It is probably not necessary to fill in all of the holes, the details. Suffice to say that those great British dynasties the Mosleys and the Mitfords and others like them were, to put it crudely, Nazi lovers. They were keen to help, and did. Rumours had persisted for decades regarding the true fate of the Fuhrer. Eva had died in the bunker, apparently at the hands of her doting new husband but just as he had been about to blow his own head off the door had burst open and there were people there, fanatics you might call them, with a change of clothes and a walking stick and all manner of disguises. They had, miraculously, managed to get him out of Berlin and eventually to Paraguay. Money talks, you see. Money always talks, and loud. Things had changed, though, and the stretching of Adolf Eichmann's neck had been the final straw. Rich English fascists had rescued him again, and here he was. I wonder what the hell he has been doing in this flat, a prisoner. Can the Fuhrer nip to Sainsbury's for a pint of milk?
Anthony is speaking, but I do not hear what he is saying. Something about money.
I thought of death again, and unimaginable cruelty and suffering and ashes and hot places and quicklime pits and I thought of the screams of children. I thought of the dreams and lives of the millions, of humanity splintered. I wondered how it had ever recovered from experiencing what it had, how it had survived teetering on the edge of an abyss. I thought of dead brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers whom I would never have known anyway. With tears beginning to well up, I thought of monsters and pity and guilt. I thought of remorse, and money. God help me, I thought of money.
About the Author
Born in Edinburgh and now living in Fife, Garry Stanton is a musician to trade, as well as a teacher in training. His debut album, Indigo Flats, was released online in 2010.
Garry also writes, having completed several short stories, his first novel and a lot of poetry, some of which has been published in the Edinburgh-based poetry magazine, Harlequin.
Garry also writes, having completed several short stories, his first novel and a lot of poetry, some of which has been published in the Edinburgh-based poetry magazine, Harlequin.