Runestones 05/2

THE RUNES ~ Episode 2

by Richard Banks

Farming’s never been this good, or this easy, even if we just sit on the land and do nothing we’re still in the black. Then Parry calls and life’s not as good as we thought. He’s Penrose’s man.

          “Any problems?” he asks, “no awkward questions.?”

         “No,” we say, but he wants more than a no. He needs to have the names and addresses of everyone who has spoken to us about the excavation, what they said, what we said to them. We tell him as best we remember.

         “Has anyone mentioned the skeleton?”

         “No,” I say, “the only person to see it apart from the diggers was me.” 

         “And have the diggers been talking?”

         “Not to anyone around here.”

         “Are you sure?” he says, and of course I’m not.

         Parry gazes thoughtfully into the cup of tea I have given him. Like Penrose, he’s a smart dresser, pin-striped suit, collar and tie, but he’s no pen pushing Ministry man. If Penrose makes the rules Parry enforces them. He is civil but never friendly, he speaks only to ask questions or to say what must be done. When we speak he considers every word in long brooding silences, his grey eyes constantly looking into ours. This is a man who knows both the sound and look of a lie.

         For now, his only concern is that the information we are giving him is imprecise or insufficient, that we do not remember all the things he says we should remember. He will make it easy for us. There is a device he wants us to wear that records what people say. It’s the size of a cigarette packet and fits into a band we are to wear around our chests. We don’t even have to turn it on, it does that itself on hearing one of six keywords. All we have to do is turn it off at the end of every conversation and identify the person or persons we have been speaking to by the occasional use of their name. There is also a form to fill in, a sort of diary in which the time and place of each conversation is to be written.

         I tell him I won’t do it. “This is England not Russia. I’m not going to spy on my friends and neighbours,” but he says I must, it’s in the agreement we signed.

         “Did you not read the small print?” He looks angry and tells us there will be fines to pay, that we will be ruined and have to sell the farm. And when I continue to protest he allows his jacket to fall open so I can see the holster that’s strapped to his shoulder.

         Dad’s looking more scared than I have ever seen him and although I can’t see my face it’s probably much the same. Parry’s expression has also changed, the anger is gone, replaced by a look of cruel satisfaction; this is a man who is enjoying our fear and wants to prolong it. He’s playing us along like a cat with a mouse. “We have stumbled on a secret,” he says. “a secret that if it escapes will spread like a contagion. Things have been said that should not have been said. Now is the time for responsible authority to protect the people from themselves. The normal rules no longer apply, innocence can not be presumed, it must be proven. Without those prepared to listen and bear witness no one can be free.” Parry is not only dangerous to know, he’s giving every impression of being one step away from the asylum. This is not a man to get on the wrong side off; to make matters worse he has the Government on his side.

         We start our new work the next day. Dad gets all stressed and, remembering he must clearly identify who he is talking to, starts calling everyone by both their given and family names. On one occasion he gets out the form he has been given and starts filling it in in full sight of the person he’s been talking to. I take him home and come out by myself in the evening to the Bull. If anyone knows more than they should about the dig this is where I’m going to hear it. I pretend it’s my birthday and buy everyone a round of drinks and a whisky chaser; if that doesn’t loosen a few tongues nothing will. As I thought no one knows more than they have read in the papers. Only one person has spoken to the diggers and that was to give directions to the guy driving their mini-bus.

         I go out the next day and the day after that visiting most of the shops and talking to everyone I meet. It’s the same story no one knows a darn thing and, what’s more, it’s yesterday’s news, they couldn’t care less. Then I meet Jones. Normally we don’t have much to say to each other but today he’s more than ready to pass the time of day with me.

         Have I heard anything about the dig? He asks. This sounds like what I should be saying to him and when I say “no” and he won’t let the subject drop I know he’s on the same mission as myself. He’s even more nervous than I am which in its way is reassuring. For once we’re on the same side and I need all the friends I can get. He walks towards the park carrying a briefcase which, I’m guessing, contains his lunch. After a few minutes, I follow him in and sure enough, he’s sitting on a bench eating a sandwich. I stand on the grass in front of him and when he looks up and sees me I put a finger to my lips. He nods and watches me take the listener out of the band that’s around my chest. He does the same and puts it in his briefcase. He holds it open so I can add mine to his. When I do he snaps it shut. But will that be enough? I’m not too sure and neither is Jones; without any prompting from me, he takes the briefcase and pushes it into bushes a yard or two back from where I was standing. When he returns to the bench he is breathing heavily, and perspiring more than anyone should on a lukewarm September day.

         “I take it you have had a visit from friend Parry,” I say.

         He replies in a voice that’s little more than a whisper. “No friend of mine. The man’s a monster. He put a gun to Roy’s head.”

Copyright Richard Banks