E - Milton's Revelation

Milton Barnaby had been told that his father, Giles 'Jackhammer'
Barnaby, was a quixotic geologist with a taste for adventure, a
sometime big cash Poker aficionado, a charismatic port-swilling
raconteur, a crapulent self-destructive phallocentric misogynist, and
the luckiest bastard alive. If any of these descriptions had ever been
true, they certainly weren't anymore. Giles was dead as a Dodo with a
doornail driven through it, and had been ever since Milton was a
toddler. He'd made a 'flamboyant exit' off a balcony on the eighteenth
floor of the Corona Hotel in Phoenix, Arizona, after a 'debate' with a
local rock trader and his bodyguards over ownership of five crates of
tanzanite. According to the trader, known as 'Uncle' Eddie Johnson,
Giles had jumped after realising the 'weight of truth confronting him',
presumably intending to land in the hotel pool below. Unfortunately, so
the story went, the pool had been drained for cleaning and Giles did
not survive the fall.

Milton lived with his mother in a cottage in Devon. As he grew up he
heard various versions of his father's demise from different people
around the village. Considering that few of them seemed to have known
Giles very well, there was a surprising abundance of opinion on the
man. Milton had never met his father and there were no pictures of him
around the cottage.

His mother was naturally reticent, but mentioning Dad made her
especially clam-like. Milton was an inquisitive child, but not just
inquisitive - he was a fully-fledged wunderkind, an uberwunderkind. At
six he was reading voraciously, handling long division and playing
Grade 5 piano. He was curious about everything, and the life of his
father was no exception. Mother would parry his questions with a
listless fatigue, like a sunbather fending off mosquitoes. She resorted
to the tritest clich?s imaginable; 'what's done is done' and 'there's
no point dwelling on the past' were common responses. When they didn't
work, she would lower her head and begin to weep softly, shaming Milton
into silence.

It wasn't until Milton returned from Oxford, having bagged a First in
English Literature, that his life jumped the points and changed from
reading like the obituary of a Telegraph Political Editor to the script
of an iffy mid-eighties high-stakes caper movie. The man who started it
all was a middle-aged drunk called Ron Saunders. Ron worked as a music
teacher and did pub gigs round Great Britain playing double bass in a
three-piece blues band called Pete Fletcher and the Dirty Blues. Milton
thought he remembered him having a wife once. He spent a lot of time in
the village pub, The Tabernacle, watching the darts and drinking a
local brew called Snail Ale.

"'E don't drink it like a snail, does 'e?" a local had once commented.
Milton wasn't sure that made sense, but it was true that Ron Saunders
liked his beer.

It was early summer, and Milton was sitting by the gambling machine
with a pint of cider. He was pissed off, tired and bored; Russian
Roulette bored, Someone Start a Fucking War bored. Ron, with the bar's
help, was standing near the blackboard, trying to read the Wednesday
Specials. Turning round, he caught sight of Milton sitting alone.

"Milton Barnaby," he exclaimed, starting to saunter over.

"Hello," said Milton. He knew Ron vaguely, but not enough to sustain or
indeed warrant a conversation. Ron dragged a chair out from beneath the
table and collapsed back into it.

"Phew," he said. "Get the weight off my legs. How have you been, me old
boy?"

"Okay." Milton supped his cider. It was prickly cold.

"What you doing at the moment? You gone to university yet?" Ron cocked
his head to one side and frowned. "How old 'd you be now?"

"I'm twenty-one," said Milton.

"Twenty-one," Ron repeated. "Twenty-one&;#8230; cor, deary me. Goes
quick, don't it?" Milton nodded convivially. "All goes quick." Ron
lifted his Snail Ale to his mouth and gulped down a good third of a
pint. He set the mug back down on the table and wiped froth from the
bristles of his beard. "Twenty-one, you say?"

"Yeah."

"Cor&;#8230;" Ron shook his head. "You're nearly as old as your Dad
was, ain't you?" Milton felt his heart clench for that convulsive
little misbeat. He was used to it now - it happened all the time. The
reference didn't even have to be to his father. Anything vaguely
paternal (and that, he'd found, covered a lot of things in life) was
enough to make his chest tighten.

"Probably."

"Good lad, your Dad was, good lad. We used to go fishing down the way."
Ron produced a battered packet of Silk Cut and stuck one in his mouth
at a jaunty angle. There was a cheer from behind him as someone struck
the bull. "Got up people's noses, sometimes. He was too big for a place
like this. Lot of people said he was a bad apple, but&;#8230;" He
let out a gurgling chuckle. His voice was coarse and arid, like the
base of a dust-flayed gulch. "Ah, well, he was a bit naughty I s'pose."
He took the cigarette out of his mouth and leaned forward furtively.
"We'd all of killed to be like him, though. Not a bloke in the parish
didn't wish he was Giles Barnaby." Ron's breath smelt of honeyed
sewage. "Secretly, mind, secretly." He lifted his mug, swilled the
contents round, then downed them. The mug returned to the table with a
thump. "Look at that. These new European pints, see. The big
continental rip-off." He got to his feet. "Better get me another." He
swaggered towards the bar with a purposeful if inelegant gait.

Milton stared out the window, absently running a finger up and down his
condensation-soaked glass. Some kids in stripy T-shirts had built a
ramp in the pub car-park, and were taking it in turns to rollerblade up
it. He watched, half-heartedly willing one of them to take a
tumble.

"So what you up to next year then?" Ron slurped the foam off his ale
and set the mug down on the table. It was interesting that despite his
clumsy imbibed stagger, sheepdog hair and slurred consonants, he never
spilt a drop of beer. More interesting than the dull, wrecking-ball
insistence of a fat inebriate's fatuous questions, anyway.

"I don't know," Milton said.

"You finished university yet?"

"Yeah. Just come back." Ron nodded sagely.

"So, what - you getting a job now?" Milton gave a petulant
mid-adolescent shrug.

"Maybe&;#8230; not much you can do with an arts degree." He wafted
Ron's cigarette smoke out of his face. "Might go travelling."

"Travelling, eh?" Ron echoed. He dipped his head down to meet his
rising pint.

"To America, something like that. I don't really want to get in much
more debt, but&;#8230; you know." Ron took a pull on his cigarette,
squinting.

"Your Dad had a lot of money," he said.

"Yeah, well I'm not likely to see any of that, am I?" Milton was
becoming irritated. It pissed him off that everyone seemed to have
known his father better than he did. Ron laughed huskily through his
teeth.

"He stashed a lot of stuff. Lot of sharks in that line of work,
see."

"So I hear," said Milton sarcastically, rolling his eyes. As soon as
the old boy went to the toilet he planned to make a run for it.

"Funny thing was&;#8230; well, I don't know if you know, but your
Dad used to write to me after he left the village." Milton felt like
saying something cutting, but restrained himself. "He was always here
there and everywhere so I couldn't write back, but&;#8230; thing is,
look&;#8230;" He hesitated. "Sounds daft but he sent me this just
before he passed away." Ron reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out
a crumpled piece of paper. He flattened it out against the table. It
was a shopping receipt. "Nope." He tossed it into the ashtray and
plunged into his pocket for a second time. This time he retrieved a
large piece of paper, creased but with a clear fold down the centre.
"Here's the bugger." He passed it to Milton.

Milton unfolded the paper. It was ruled note paper torn from a pad. On
it were various blue biro squiggles, lines, and some practically
illegible handwriting. Milton tilted it from portrait to landscape and
back again, but was none the wiser.

"Why'd he send you this?"

"God knows," said Ron, taking a swig of Snail Ale. "I hadn't spoken to
him in years. I just kept getting letters and this was in the last
one."

"What's it supposed to be?" Milton had a horrible feeling he could
guess.

"A map," said Ron.

"Well, it's a shit map," said Milton.

"No, see, I reckon if you were in the area-"

"And if you could read his handwriting," Milton interjected.

"Yeah, and if you could read his handwriting, I reckon it'd make
sense."

"And what do you think it leads to?" Ron scratched his jaw.

"If I had to put money on it," he said, "I'd say this shows where he
hid all the stones he didn't want people to get their hands on. Tens a'
thousands of quid's worth."

"Right," said Milton. He picked up his pint glass and sunk the rest of
his cider. "So why would he send it to you?"

"Don't know. For safe keeping, p'haps. I can't read it, after
all."

"Smashing. That's great. A doodle covered with scribbling nobody can
read."

"That's the thing, though," said Ron. "I know someone who can read it.
You'd be able to clear your debts then." Milton found himself raising
an eyebrow.

"Really?" he asked, despite himself. "Who?" Ron lifted his ale mug,
stared at for a moment, then brought it down like a judge's
gavel.

"You still thinking of going to America?"

"Oh Christ," said Milton.

* * *

San Fran was hot and big and sweaty. Ron had given him an address and a
nickname that sounded like a bad CB radio handle. The address turned
out to be a so-so apartment block that took forever to get to. He rung
the doorbell twice, feeling like a prize lemon. Nobody answered, so he
slipped a message under the door with his name and the address of the
hostel he was staying at on it. On the bottom he wrote 'Ron Saunders
said you're a friend of his'. As he walked away, Milton reflected that
over the years, Ron Saunders had said a lot of things. He'd said the
Channel Tunnel would flood, that women were 'overrated', and that
Satellite TV let the government spy on you. He'd even said once that he
wasn't drunk.

Milton spent the rest of the day ambling around the city, feeling
dwarfed. When he got back to the hostel someone had left a note for
him. It simply read: 'Hiya Milton - been expecting you!! Meet me at
Raymond's Bar', without a name or time or anything.

Wildcard had all the answers. He seemed to recognise Milton almost
immediately, raising his head, smiling, motioning for him to come and
sit down. It was evening, and the bar was quiet and humid.

"Hi," he said, "it's Milton, right?" He sounded British ex-pat, his
accent littered with unexpected inflections and Americanisms. He used
his hands a lot when he spoke. Milton was rather taken aback.

"Are you Ron's friend?" he asked.

"That's right. Wildcard." He delivered the moniker
straight-faced.

"Oh." Milton paused. "How d'you know who I am?" Wildcard laughed. It
was, Milton was relieved to note, a reserved, distinctly British
laugh.

"It was the face." Wildcard threw his gaze upward and assumed an
expression of mock amazement. He kept the mime going for a couple of
seconds then lowered his head. "It's the same one I had when I first
got here." Milton smiled sheepishly.

"It's uhh, it's not what I'm used to," he said.

"Take a seat," said Wildcard, patting the table. Milton did so, sliding
onto the opposite bench. "Fancy a drink?"

"Uhh&;#8230;" Milton didn't. "Yes, all right then." Wildcard went to
the bar, and came back with two mugs of beer.

"Sorry they're a bit small," he said. "They haven't really got their
heads round pints over here."

"That's okay," said Milton, shifting to get comfortable. "Thanks very
much." He found himself starting to relax for the first time since he'd
got on the plane.

"Ron called and said you were coming," said Wildcard, resting his
elbows on the table. "I haven't seen him for a while. Lost a little of
my accent and hair since I was in England last." He smiled and shook
his head. "So you're Giles' son." The concept seemed to evoke a certain
amount of awe. "How's Sally?" Sally was Milton's mother's real name. It
took him a moment to work out who Wildcard was referring to.

"Oh, she's uhh, she's fine." He took a meek sip of his beer.

"Does she talk about your Dad much?"

"Not really," said Milton. "Not at all, actually." Wildcard nodded as
if he'd been expecting it.

"She never really approved of his choice of lifestyle. Can't say I
blame her. He was this crazy romantic, breezing off all round the world
hunting for buried treasure, and she was this shy, pretty girl training
to be a primary school teacher. A lot of women think they can change
men like that. They fall for them and then&;#8230;" Wildcard
chuckled. "It was doomed from day one. She even thought they'd get
married."

"Oh," said Milton. "They uhh, they never married?" He could feel his
chest tightening again, only he suspected that this time it wouldn't go
away.

"No," said Wildcard. "She took his name for appearance's sake and
everything, but&;#8230; Why? Didn't your Mum tell you that?"

"She never told me anything. Everything I know about him is from
village gossip." Across the bar, a TV was showing baseball highlights.
The bottom of the screen was lined with statistics Milton didn't
understand. "How did you know him?" Wildcard quaffed a mouthful of
beer.

"Oh, me and him knew each other in England and then I came over here,
and he kind of followed a few years later. I mean, he was in the
country now and then but it was hard to pin him down. He'd always be
poring over government bulletins and field surveys then suddenly one
day he'd be off."

"What was he after?" Milton asked.

"Rocks," said Wildcard.

"Rocks?"

"Rocks," Wildcard repeated. The word clearly had a resonance he found
pleasing. "Semi-precious stones, anything beautiful. Tiger's eye,
aquamarine, tourmaline, red topaz, calcite on pyrite,
apophyllite&;#8230; anything, anything he could dig up with a pick
and spade. If he found really big stuff, you know, like a whole load of
quartz or something like that, I used to help him out, setting him up
with a team or something that could get it all out for him." Wildcard
sniffed and wiped his nose with a napkin. "It was pretty mad. We were
mostly down around Tuscon, that kind of area. When we were both in town
for a couple of days, we used to play Poker, hustle people, win a few
bucks. You play cards much?"

"Sometimes," said Milton, thinking of late-night Bridge sessions at
university. Wildcard's eyes had lit up.

"You see this?" Wildcard lifted a pendant from out between the open top
buttons of his shirt. It was a polished, green-white dragon set in a
bronze clasp. "Jadeite, from Burma. Your Dad gave me this&;#8230;
well, he didn't exactly give it to me." The glint in Wildcard's eyes
grew to a firecracker sparkle. "But he was playing so badly it was
practically a gift." He reached out and placed a hand on Milton's
shoulder. "Word of advice to you Milton," he said. "Don't get into
Poker. It's like a worm that burrows into your brain. It makes you
crazy." As he lifted his hand away, he patted Milton's upper arm
gently. The gesture made Milton feel uncomfortable. The thought flashed
through his mind that perhaps Wildcard was not merely friendly but gay.
Foreign travel could do funny things to people. He tried to chide
himself for being so irrational, but there was definitely something
about the man's body language&;#8230; "So," said Wildcard abruptly,
"let's 'cut to the chase'." He made little inverted commas with his
index fingers as he said it.

"Uhh, what do you mean?" Milton found himself beginning to shuffle
gradually backwards in his seat.

"Ron said Giles sent him a map, right?"

"Oh," said Milton, repressing a relieved sigh, "oh right, yes." His
rucksack was propped up next to him. He unzipped the front pocket and
carefully took the piece of paper out.

"If it's real," said Wildcard, "and if we find anything, we split it
fifty-fifty, okay?"

"Okay," said Milton. "Do you think it might be?"

"It's possible. Rock trading, it's&;#8230; it's a cutthroat
business, you know? You get these collectors paying hundreds of
thousands of dollars for stuff that's just lying in the ground.
People'll kill for it. Look at Sierra Leone - a twenty-year civil war
over gold and diamonds. High-stakes game." Milton pushed the map across
the table. Wildcard picked it up, scrutinised it. He looked suddenly
very tired. "Look, it's too late to do anything tonight. This could be
anywhere but&;#8230; I think I can pretty much decipher your Dad's
handwriting, if you give me a little while. How about if we meet up
tomorrow afternoon?"

"Don't mind. Sounds fine."

"Same place, then," said Wildcard. "Go and get some kip."

* * *

Milton spent the night spread-eagled on an uncomfortable bed, the
sheets twisted round his ankles as he wept perspiration. By the time
morning came he felt half-cut and grizzled. Dark pouches had formed
under his eyes. A shower and a shave helped, but not a lot.

He got to Raymond's Bar by half-past one. It hadn't occurred to Milton
that Wildcard might not return - after all, it'd only take one of them
to dig up whatever Giles had buried. For a few anxious moments, Milton
couldn't see him, then a familiar face looked round from the bar.

"Hey, how you doing?" Wildcard said. He raised his glass, tilted it
slightly. "7UP and pineapple juice. So's we stay on the road." He
grinned mischievously.

"What? You worked out where it is?" Wildcard sipped his drink and set
it down on the bar.

"Pretty much. We'll find out soon enough." Milton tried to think of
something to say.

"Blimey," he offered.

* * *

The hire car was lime-green and smelt like a poorly ventilated shoe
shop. Wildcard hurtled down the freeway with a Zen-like equanimity that
made Milton's eyes water. Milton had a road atlas concertinaed in his
lap. Wildcard had asked him to read from it a couple of times. It made
little more sense to Milton than his father's hand-drawn effort, but at
least it was from an ostensibly reliable source. One Boxing Day, when a
knowledge-hungry eight-year-old Milton had again driven his mother to
tears, Grandma had ushered him into the kitchen for blunt
edification.

"Stop asking questions about your father," she'd instructed, aiming an
index finger at his forehead. "That man was a congenital liar. He's not
worth knowing."

"How long do you think it's likely to take?" Milton asked, unfastening
the top button of his shirt. His skin was coated with a thin, greasy
sheen of sweat. Wildcard took a swig from a bottle of Gatorade,
spilling most of it out the sides of his mouth and down his front. His
other hand rested against the steering wheel with a laxity that made
Milton squirm.

"Dunno," Wildcard hedged. "Depends on the traffic, I guess. You fancy
putting the radio on?"

"Nah. I'm all right."

They drove on in silence for twenty or so miles, Milton gazing
listlessly out of the passenger window, feeling sticky.

"Right," said Wildcard as they turned off the freeway. It was late
afternoon and Milton was getting hungry. "I was wondering&;#8230;
how do you feel about your Dad and stuff?"

"What do you mean?" There was a crunch as Wildcard changed gear.

"Well, you never knew him. It must be kind of weird." Milton spat out
of the window.

"Maybe. You don't miss what you've never had." They passed a signpost
riddled with place names Milton didn't recognise. He had let the atlas
slough off of his legs and into the footwell.

"You don't feel, you know, angry towards him or anything?"

"I don't know," Milton said. He straightened up in his seat. "I don't
know at all. I don't even know if I really want to find whatever it is
we're looking for. I kind of&;#8230;" He paused. "It really gets to
me every time I'm reminded of him. I've got no idea why I'm doing this.
I just wish I could forget him once and for all." Wildcard was driving
at a less rabid pace now. He turned to Milton.

"He never knew about you, you know." Milton's empty stomach reacted
immediately.

"What?"

"Sally didn't want him to find out. She didn't want him to have any
part in bringing you up." Wildcard looked back to the road. "Her mom
put her under a lot of pressure."

"Are you serious?" said Milton. The words nearly caught in his
throat.

"Totally. He sent letters but she never replied. She was mad with him
for running off to hunt treasure." Milton's face went through a number
of contorted expressions. He had started shaking.

"Wait, hang on," he said suddenly, "what the fuck? How did you know
about me, then? You weren't surprised at all. Why didn't you mention it
earlier?" Milton was so caught up in a cacophony of contrary thoughts
and feelings that he didn't notice the car slowing down until it came
to a scraping halt. The hairs on his neck and forearms slowly stood to
attention.

"I&;#8230; I haven't been entirely honest with you, Milton," said
Wildcard. He took a couple of deep breaths. "There is no secret stash.
I've, uhh, I've got you out here under false pretences." Milton found
himself inching back into his seat. "Ron Saunders told me about you.
He&;#8230; it was some years back now. He managed to get me some
photos and&;#8230;" Wildcard ran a hand through his hair and
grimaced as if in pain. "I'm sorry. I got Ron to draw the map and
pretend it was from me. I&;#8230; I thought it'd get you over
here."

Milton was quietly assessing his chances, trying to calculate how
quickly he could scramble from the car. There didn't seem to be any
buildings around them, just fields. Wildcard had pulled up in the
middle of nowhere. Milton thought he recalled passing a petrol station
a few miles back. He glanced at Wildcard's frame; he wasn't a big man.
Would he be able to hold his own if it came to a fight?

"What&;#8230;" Milton felt nauseous. "What's going on?"

"I&;#8230; God, I'm sorry." Wildcard slapped the dashboard. Milton
flinched and nearly bit his tongue. "I didn't know how else to get you
here. It was a stupid idea, but I didn't want people to know." He
looked at Milton imploringly, reached out to put a hand on his
shoulder. Milton pulled away; the hand withdrew. "Sorry," Wildcard
repeated. "I know this is weird. You don't know what's going on. I
didn't mean to lie to you."

"What then? What do you want?" Milton was on the verge of tears.

"You've got to understand&;#8230; people want to kill me." He rubbed
his thinning hair. "I couldn't just call you." Milton's stomach began
folding over on itself. "I really wanted to see you." Milton's mouth
tried to form another impotent 'what', but no sound came out. Wildcard
let the silence hang. "You know who I am, right?"

Milton shook his head once, twice, through a blurry film of tears, then
lurched forward and vomited into the footwell, spattering his shoes and
the road map in caustic bile. He gripped his knees and pushed himself
back upright. His throat and nostrils were burning.

"What do you want?" he whispered. Wildcard was trembling too, now. The
corners of his eyes were wet.

"It was such a crazy time," he said. "I'd made some really, really bad
choices. I was bringing in a lot of money and there were people who
wanted it. The risk was just part and parcel of it, just part of the
thrill. I knew Ron from back home, and one day I got this letter from
him, telling me about you&;#8230;" He coughed loudly, and wiped
tears from his eyes. "There were people who would've used you, Milton.
They would've done it to get to me. It's a really nasty business.
Gangsters and terrorists launder money through rock trading, you know?
They don't mess around." Milton leant back against the headrest. He
closed his eyes. "I made a deal with a man called Eddie Johnson. He was
really small time but he wanted to make a name for himself. I let him
have a few cases of crappy cheap rocks and left town." Wildcard waited
to play his denouement. "He had to pretend him and his thugs had bumped
me off." Milton said nothing. "My name is Giles Barnaby. As far as I
know, I'm your Dad." Milton opened his eyes.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he said. "You shouldn't
lie."

"Milton, I'm not lying."

"Oh right." Milton's voice was flat and emotionless. "I'm supposed to
believe you. You've got no proof and I'm just supposed to believe you.
What do you want me to do, hug you?"

"Look at this." The man claiming to be Giles 'Jackhammer' Barnaby
reached into the back and retrieved his rucksack. He opened it and
pulled out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Milton. Milton
glanced at him, then pulled it open with his thumb. It wasn't sealed,
just folded over. Inside was a square, dog-eared photograph with a
crease running diagonally across it. Two figures were holding hands in
front of a low hedge. In the top right hand corner, behind the hedge,
was the familiar Tabernacle pub sign. The left figure was a young and
very pretty Milton's mother. The right one had thick, curly brown hair
and a tight stomach&;#8230; but he was unmistakably the man sitting
in the driver's seat.

Milton started sobbing. The photo fell from his fingers and he began
blubbing uncontrollably, only to find himself swaddled in his father's
arms. They felt strange, foreign, but instead of recoiling, Milton just
abandoned himself to the tears. Exhausted, he allowed Giles to support
him as he cried and shuddered. Eventually, the tears stopped coming.
The two separated. Milton wiped his nose on his wrist.

"So what now?"

"We'd better, uhh&;#8230; we'd better find somewhere to stop. We
can't stay out here all night," Giles said. "Can you map read for me?"
Milton felt dizzy, wet and tired. He reached down into the footwell for
the road atlas. It fell open as he lifted it, dribbling sick across his
trousers. The whole thing was soaked in orange-brown vomit. Milton
frowned, then quite uncharacteristically, laughed.

"Ah," he said.

"Looks like we're going to have to wing it," said Giles. Milton tossed
the soggy map out of the window. Plastered to the back of it, unseen,
was Giles' faded photograph. As it settled on the tarmac road and
granite pebbles, the car coughed into life and pulled away.